<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Opposition, in all things by skogr</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26027014">Opposition, in all things</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/skogr/pseuds/skogr'>skogr</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>lighting candles [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Mage-Templar Dynamics (Dragon Age), Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:01:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>91,410</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26027014</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/skogr/pseuds/skogr</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that Linnea especially <i>dislikes</i> Cullen, it's that she can't see a clear path from uneasy distrust to anything even remotely resembling friendship. It doesn't make it any easier when it feels like the whole of Thedas is waiting patiently for them to set an example they all can follow.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>lighting candles [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/393493</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>87</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>122</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. i.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Much of this was written by 2015/16 me, only to be ultimately abandoned by 2017 me who decided I'd written more than enough Cullen/Inquisitor and it was embarrassing. Despite this, it's been rattling around in my head, taking up real estate in my useless brain ever since, so here is 2020 me finding joy where I can in an honest to god global pandemic saying: fuck it! Maybe this is embarrassing! Maybe it's even more embarrassing to be posting it in 2020 than it ever was in 2016! Who cares! I hope it brings at least someone some enjoyment, the world is terrible right now and I've definitely enjoyed dusting off the cobwebs and revisiting a pairing that is still (very genuinely, very embarrassingly) very close to my heart.</p><p>This fits into my series but doesn't require any knowledge of other works in the series, and comes first (more or less) chronologically.</p><p>There'll be four parts, although I'm not sure each chapter (once edited) will end up quite as long as the first, which is a bit of a beast.</p><p>(Minor emetophobia warning and mild threat of drowning towards the end of the scene where Linnea closes a rift.)</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Here, I decree<br/>Opposition in all things:<br/>For earth, sky<br/>For winter, summer<br/>For darkness, Light.</i></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Once again, Linnea finds herself flat on her back in the snow, both the wind and her dignity thoroughly knocked out of her. She lies there breathlessly for a moment, gazing wistfully up at Haven’s green-streaked sky, until Cassandra’s hand appears from the corner of her vision. With a sigh she grabs it, and is hauled to her feet. Cassandra even brushes her down with a few brisk motions to dislodge the snow, which really doesn’t help restore her bruised pride.</p>
<p>“Watch my feet,” Cassandra says in a rather severe tone, though Linnea is starting to know her well enough that she doesn't take it to heart. “You could have blocked that.”</p>
<p>“Right.” Linnea picks up the wooden staff she’d dropped as Cassandra spins her own staff back into a defensive position with an effortless flair that’s delightful to watch. Unfair, but delightful. When it comes to combat, all Linnea has really brought to the table other than her magical ability is her skill with a staff, but she’s starting to see now that her twirls and flourishes prove little more than theatrical when it comes to close encounters. That’s why she’d asked Cassandra to help her, after all. She did this to herself.</p>
<p> It still feels vaguely unfair that Cassandra can pick up a weapon Linnea has trained with since she was an infant and routinely wipe the floor with her. </p>
<p>“Could’ve blocked it with magic,” Linnea mutters.</p>
<p>“But you are not to use magic.” Cassandra starts to circle her carefully, eyes flickering between her feet and her hands where they grip the staff. “That’s not the purpose of the exercise.”</p>
<p>“Allow me to at least <em>imagine</em> that I might retain some dignity, Lady Pentaghast. I’ve spent more of the past hour on my backside than I’d care to tally up.”</p>
<p>Cassandra huffs, but as Linnea grins she spins her staff and smacks her on the shin, taking advantage of her distraction without mercy. “Focus,” she says sternly, as Linnea yelps and retreats a step or two, her leg stinging. “Now, watch my feet -“</p>
<p>Linnea throws herself into the exercise with renewed determination, blocking each of Cassandra’s lunges as they circle each other, each parry and click of wood on wood a small but satisfying victory. There’s no sign of approval in her impatient tutor’s face, but then again, she’s not sure she’d recognise it even if there was. </p>
<p>After a few exhausting minutes of this to and fro, Cassandra feints, then swings her staff from her shoulder to hit across Linnea’s neck, which she ducks only just enough that she feels the wood brush across her scalp. Delighted, she lets the momentum carry her through to hit Cassandra on the back of the legs, only to find her staff blocking that blow. She realises too late that staying crouched has left her vulnerable once more, and feels Cassandra’s pole press into her neck as she’s pushed onto her knees, and drops her own staff in frustrated surrender. It’s somehow even less dignified to have been purposefully spared another sprawl in the snow.</p>
<p>“I know, I know,” she pants, pushing Cassandra's staff away from her neck with an irritated gesture. “Your feet-“</p>
<p>“Keep the movement tighter. The larger your swing, the more time I have to react to it.”</p>
<p>“Right,” Linnea says again, gritting her teeth, “right -“</p>
<p>She grabs the staff and rises into an immediate strike but Cassandra is ready for her, and although she blocks every one of Linnea’s swings seemingly effortlessly, it’s Linnea moving forward and Cassandra taking careful steps backward this time. She can’t help it; she grins. Let Cassandra lecture her about focus later.</p>
<p>Linnea recalls Cassandra’s high strike and swings her staff in a tight arch, aiming to do the same, and Cassandra ducks it as closely as Linnea did, which only makes her grin wider. That’s where the similarity ends, however, as Cassandra rises quickly and fluidly to spin her staff into Linnea’s back. This time, she doesn’t spare her the impact, and Linnea is propelled mercilessly forward. For a brief, giddy moment, she thinks she might manage to stay on her feet.</p>
<p>“Like so,” Cassandra says, as Linnea’s short lived hopes are crushed and she skids to an undignified halt on her hands and knees. “Do you see why that worked and yours did not?”</p>
<p>“I think so,” Linnea says breathlessly, “or at least, I’m starting to see why you always end up with a dummy for a training partner. It’s rather more perilous facing you when you’ve got lungs to think of.”</p>
<p>That gets an amused snort, but not from Cassandra. With a sinking feeling, Linnea looks up slowly and sees Cullen standing beside her. Their exercises have brought them almost as far as his usual training area, and as such, they’ve gathered an audience. </p>
<p>“Again,” Cassandra says impatiently, and Cullen holds a hand out towards Linnea. It’s an uncertain gesture on his part, but she supposes it’s kind of him to make it, so in turn she tries not to look too reluctant when she takes it. It seems they both fail, and the whole thing is dreadfully awkward. She’s getting weary after so long running Cassandra’s relentless drills, and he ends up taking rather more of her weight than she’d intended. Thank the Maker for small mercies; at least he doesn’t try to brush any snow off her. Her wounded ego can only take so much.</p>
<p>“Even the training dummies protest Cassandra's treatment,” he says into the awkward pause that follows as she readies her stance and finds her hand positions on the staff once more. “We’ve had to replace the heads several times.”</p>
<p>“Why am I not at all surprised,” she says lightly, but unexpectedly this doesn’t seem to be the end of their interaction. He’s still standing there, much to her horror. It’s not that - well, there’s nothing <em>wrong</em> with him watching, they’re in a public space and they’re hardly being secretive or private about their exercises, but it’s just - it’s just -</p>
<p>“Herald,” Cassandra calls, and she whips round to face her with irritation. Fine. <em>Fine</em>. He can stand where he likes. She can train where she likes. They can both just do whatever they like, wherever they like, and she’s just going to do her level best to ignore him.</p>
<p>“Seeker,” she says with a mocking bow of her head, because she loves needling Cassandra and a facetious sense of seriousness does it every time. Cassandra rolls her eyes as she snaps into action, and Linnea stands her ground, stepping aside at the last moment as Cassandra advances on her and bringing her next blow in as tightly as she can, almost catching her on the back before Cassandra spins to block it.</p>
<p>“Very good.”</p>
<p>They both push against each other as their staffs connect, forming a cross as they test each other’s grip. Linnea isn’t so foolish as to imagine she could ever outmatch Cassandra in something like this where it comes down to sheer strength, so she pushes back just enough to give herself space to withdraw before Cassandra can really push her advantage. </p>
<p>They circle each other for a moment, Linnea’s concentration flickering for a moment as she catches Cullen out of the corner of her eye and the irritation floods back in. Doesn't he have a job he should be doing? He's only the <em>commander</em> of this entire thing, surely he should be training someone, or planning something, or - or just generally <em>commanding</em> -</p>
<p>Cassandra lunges, probably spotting the lull in her focus, and they fall into the familiar pattern of hitting and blocking, Linnea remembering this time to watch her feet like a hawk.</p>
<p>Cassandra then changes technique completely - it really <em>is</em> horrendously unfair that she’s so effortlessly good at every aspect of this - and jabs her staff in, under and up, knocking Linnea’s staff out of her left hand. She staggers, but keeps the staff in the grip of her right hand somehow, and as Cassandra goes into for another of those disarming jabs, she spins off-balance and ends up catching the end of Cassandra’s staff with her left hand where it starts to gently singe. Force of habit.</p>
<p>“No magic,” Cassandra says sharply, and pulls the staff back with one hand while gesturing out in front of her with the other, and Linnea feels the magic drawn forcefully from her. She doubles over despite herself, her body automatically gasping for air even though that isn’t what Cassandra has taken. She hasn’t been on the receiving end of one of Cassandra’s purges before, and it’s distinctly unpleasant. Her entire body burns and she feels nauseous.</p>
<p>She doesn’t get a chance to catch her breath before Cassandra starts advancing again, knocking Linnea’s staff out of the way with each strike she attempts as if she’s swatting away a fly. It would be disheartening if Linnea hadn’t already experienced what true failure felt like, but as it is, as long as she hasn’t got a mouthful of snow, she’ll take it as a victory.</p>
<p>She takes the one opening Cassandra gives her with enthusiasm, landing a jab on her thighs, even if she receives a heavy blow to the shoulder for her trouble. Cullen - who she’d been doing an admirable job of more or less ignoring - winces, and for some reason that movement more than any other stands out when she sees it from the corner of her eye. Her concentration drops, her arms heavy with exhaustion, and Cassandra knocks the staff clean out of her hands onto the ground before placing the tip at Linnea’s neck. You can take the sword from the swordswoman, she thinks wryly, but even without a pointed metal blade, old habits die hard.</p>
<p>They just look at each other for a moment, both out of breath, and Linnea thinks she can see approval in Cassandra’s eyes this time. She's practically floating with the sheer satisfaction of it.</p>
<p>“When she moves forward like that,” Cullen says, deflating her quicker than a pin in a bubble, “she leaves herself open from basically every other direction. You’d do better to take advantage of that rather than try to parry.”</p>
<p>He couldn't let her bask in Cassandra's approval for even five meagre seconds. </p>
<p>“Well,” Linnea says as evenly as she can manage, bending down to retrieve her plain, wooden staff and planting one end in the snow with perhaps more aggression than necessary. Had it been her regular staff, no doubt it would have left a scorch mark. “I think it's time I concede defeat to our inexhaustible Seeker, for today. Perhaps you could show us how it’s done, Commander?” She inclines her staff towards him with a little thrill of glee at his nonplussed expression, and imagines the same expression on his face as Cassandra knocks the breath from him. It's really quite a beautiful image.</p>
<p>“I’m hardly keen to face Lady Cassandra with a weapon I’m not all that familiar with.”</p>
<p>“And yet,” Linnea says sweetly, still offering the staff, “so keen to offer advice...”</p>
<p>Cullen just looks at her, his expression hard to read but his jaw set stubbornly, the quick half turn of his head telling her that he’s as aware of the curious faces peering round the sides of the tents as she is. Even if he doesn’t take the bait, she’s enjoying dangling it in front of him immensely. He doesn't seem to be a man who's all that used to being teased, which is just too bad. He's proving wonderfully slow to learn.</p>
<p>After a long but delightful moment, he takes the staff with a reluctance that’s so gracefully resigned she’s almost disappointed. She’d hoped for something just a bit more disgruntled, maybe a sigh, or some other small noise of dissatisfaction -</p>
<p>He doesn’t spin the staff as Cassandra does, but his hands find the correct position along it with an ease that suggests the Chantry trains their recruits in pole arms a great deal more thoroughly than Linnea ever realised. Of course. Of <em>course</em> his idea of not being familiar with a weapon is the same as Cassandra’s, which is to say: actually really quite proficient. </p>
<p>Cassandra, for her part, looks both amused by this turn of events and still <em>somehow</em> not exhausted. The woman is a force of nature. </p>
<p>“You’re welcome, by the way,” Linnea says, taking a step back as Cullen turns to look at her again. “I’ve softened her up for you.”</p>
<p>“I very much doubt that.” He rolls his shoulders and nods at Cassandra, before looking back over in the direction of the tents. “Keep running the drills,” he calls out sharply, and for all the hurried ‘yes ser’s Linnea is absolutely positive his little audience isn’t going anywhere. Likewise, she settles in to enjoy the show as Cassandra and Cullen start to circle each other slowly. </p>
<p>Neither Cassandra nor Cullen are wearing their full armor - all the better to feel the sharp sting of the training staff - and Linnea gets the impression from the way they’re moving that this kind of exercise is enjoyably unencumbered for them. They’re light on their feet and quick in their movements, so when Cassandra finally breaks the slow tension of them sizing each other up, it all moves very fast.</p>
<p>There’s a long while of furious back and forth parrying before Cassandra lands a swipe across his side. It knocks him off balance, but he plants his staff and takes the weight in his arms, pulling himself almost immediately back up with considerably more dignity than Linnea ever managed. She can hear the soldiers beside her muttering appreciatively, and she has to believe for her own ego that it’s Cassandra they’re directing it at.</p>
<p>“One,” Cassandra says, backing off with a satisfied look, and Cullen actually chuckles.</p>
<p>“One,” he agrees, “ first to three touches?”</p>
<p>"Excuse me, <em>touches?</em>" Linnea demands, memories of the force of Cassandra's blows painfully fresh, but they ignore her, Cullen rolling his neck and Cassandra still eyeing him sharp as a hawk.</p>
<p>Then they’re back at it, the sound of wood hitting wood echoing out over the frozen lake. It’s an entirely different exercise between two people experienced in combat that relies on strength, even if Linnea feels a little prickle of shame at how much faster and harder they’re hitting each other. She pushes that thought away as best she can; the objective of Cassandra’s exercise wasn’t to somehow cram decades of infantry training into a few hours, but to give her a few tricks up her sleeve for when setting her enemies on fire didn’t quite do the job. Of course, it usually does the job quite nicely, but for Cullen and Cassandra however, this is their first line of defence and offence. </p>
<p>She’s seen Cullen fight before, she saw him fighting demons by the Breach and she’s seen him running drills with the soldiers, and she supposed that if Cassandra sought him out specifically to be the Inquisition’s commander, he must be pretty handy with a sword. She <em>knew</em> this intellectually, but she is only just now realising that he really is rather good. He’s actually giving Cassandra a run for her money, and - well, she hadn’t considered that. The possibility of Cassandra ending up face down in the snow? It might just delight her as much as seeing Cullen get his legs knocked out from under him. She hardly knows who to root for.</p>
<p>Cassandra blocks two particularly aggressive strikes before making one of her own, lunging forward in the move that caught Linnea out and singed the end of her pole. Cullen, true to his unsolicited advice, doesn’t parry: he steps aside and brings his staff down sharply across Cassandra’s back, stopping the momentum as soon as he makes contact. Linnea’s vision of Cassandra sprawled in the snow is clearly not to be.</p>
<p>“One,” Cullen says, and turns to look directly at Linnea with an expression that can only be described as smug. She longs to strangle him.</p>
<p>“Then the last point determines the winner,” she says instead, and Cullen wipes his forehead on the sleeve of his upper arm. His hair is damp and there’s a bit of colour to his cheeks for once, sleeves rolled up and his forearms looking all <em>strong</em> and - ugh. She wishes fervently she could say it did nothing for her, but - well. She just looks at him impassively even as she feels her cheeks growing warm, until he looks away, focused on Cassandra once more. </p>
<p>There’s quite an audience now even if they’re all pretending otherwise, but it doesn’t seem to faze either of them. They start their slow circling again and Linnea, to her credit, does actually try to learn something as the strikes and counter strikes begin. Cullen dodges quickly but with an economy of movement, not moving an inch more than he needs to, where Linnea had been trying to leave an over-generous amount of space between Cassandra’s swings and herself. Cassandra never hesitates, but never takes an opportunity that would leave her completely vulnerable, and never allows herself to be lured in with the false promise of an easy hit. </p>
<p>Finally, in a frantic tumble that she can hardly follow, Cullen seems for a moment to have the edge, his staff inches away from Cassandra's neck, but then suddenly the end of her staff is planted squarely in the middle of his chest. He stumbles a step backwards with the impact but stays on his feet, much to Linnea's regret, before dropping his staff in surrender.</p>
<p>"Two," says Cassandra crisply, but there's a smile playing at her lips. She lets the staff drop and grips Cullen on the upper arm, which he returns. For the two of them, it's practically a prolonged embrace. Linnea hears the distinctive clink of coins changing hands behind her along with a few disappointed sighs, and hides her own grin behind her hand. </p>
<p>Cullen turns back to look at their audience, and they disperse hurriedly under the regard of his wearily raised eyebrows without him even needing to say anything. He picks up the staff with a flourish that she'd interpret as cockiness if it weren't for his expression. "Lady Herald," he says evenly, not a trace of his earlier smugness. He holds the staff out towards her. At least he isn’t going to rub it in.</p>
<p>"Commander," she says, and then to hide the slight twist of her mouth at his chosen title, she lets herself grin. "I suppose I did ask."</p>
<p>"You… did?"</p>
<p>"I recall asking you to show us how it's done." She takes the staff from him and he lets out a short laugh.</p>
<p>"I'm not altogether sure I succeeded," he says dryly, and in a terrible moment of weakness spurred on by the fact that he's actually smiling and looking halfway relaxed, she finds herself noticing the damp sheen of his collarbones despite her determination to not notice anything of the sort. If only she could blame this on a hard knock to the head, but it’s one part of her that isn’t sore. At least, she tells herself in a desperate attempt to pretend it’s a professional observation, Cassandra clearly made him work for it, too. </p>
<p>"You didn’t end up sprawled on the ground, at least.”</p>
<p>“Not this time,” he says, and she thinks for a moment that he’s lying to spare her dignity until she sees Cassandra’s mouth twitching behind him. </p>
<p>“Tomorrow,” Cassandra says, “the same again.” She slaps Cullen on the back and strides off, apparently not needing Linnea to answer.</p>
<p>“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” Linnea says weakly, more to herself to anyone, but it gets another small laugh from Cullen into what is otherwise a slightly awkward pause. He's still breathing a little harder than usual and it gives him a rather more animated look than she's used to seeing, when he's often so stiff and remote. Half the time he even looks downright unwell, his forehead damp and face pallid. This rosier version of him is altogether more - approachable. Among other things. Which she absolutely isn't thinking about.</p>
<p>“Well,” he says, after another equally awkward pause. “Back to work?”</p>
<p>“Back to work indeed.”</p>
<p>She trudges back up to her lodgings in Haven proper, thinking longingly of the tin bathtub Vivienne has managed to procure and the steaming hot water she’s going to fill it with. She’s going to lock the door and stay there as long as she possibly can, and nothing short of another Breach tearing the sky open will count as sufficiently urgent to get her out. She’s going to boil herself like the sack of bruised potatoes she feels like after Cassandra’s ministrations. She’s going to soak up the exhaustion from two weeks of templars and apostates and demons and Maker knows what else.</p>
<p>And most importantly, she’s going to wash away any memory of Cullen and his arms or his shoulders or his <em>anything</em> that isn't just the Inquisition's brusque, ex-Templar Commander. Her life may have become a whirlwind of impossibilities since she stumbled out of the Fade, but she still knows a fruitless complication when she sees one.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s not that she doesn’t think the War Council is important. Nor does she find it dull; she spent long enough in the Circle eavesdropping just to get morsels of very specific information that she can appreciate the thrill of being involved in discussions with a scope this large. It’s a far cry from vying for the best spot to press her ear against the door just to find out which apprentice is being considered for the next Harrowing. </p>
<p>It's just that they <em>insist </em>on convening the minute she steps foot back in Haven, and now that it's become a settled routine she feels she can't possibly object. She's just spent a miserable two weeks trudging through a literal bog fighting actual, <em>genuine </em>undead hordes, and she's being whisked away to that stuffy back room before she can even clean the decomposing guts from her clothes. Not to mention there was a hard ride from the Mire to Haven and she's so stiff she can hardly walk without looking comically bowlegged.</p>
<p>So of course she <em>cares</em> about the pressing issues they bring to the table for discussion, but can she really be blamed for wanting to make a quick getaway the minute it seems like their business is concluded?</p>
<p>“One last thing,” Leliana says in an apologetic tone, and Linnea does her best not to look as crestfallen as she feels. It's harder to cover for the way she'd already turned for the door, but she tries to be gracious about it nonetheless.</p>
<p>"Of course, I do apologise."</p>
<p>"It won't take long. but I believe your input will be most valuable."</p>
<p>Linnea straightens her back and casts a quick glance at Cassandra to her left, who must surely, <em>surely</em> be as tired as she is, having fought all the same fights, made the same long journey through the mountains, and came straight to the Council after arriving back at Haven exhausted, the same as her. Of course, there's no indication of this in the way the Seeker stands to attention, hands clasped behind her back. Right. </p>
<p>“Of course,” Linnea says again, as brightly as she can muster. If Cassandra’s still standing, then so is she. “What is it?”</p>
<p>Leliana hands her a letter. “Perendale has requested our assistance with a group of mages who have chosen to remain behind and barricade themselves inside the tower. It's... unclear whether they consider themselves rebels.” </p>
<p>"Ah," Linnea says, again trying to hide her weariness. Of course. She wishes sometimes that Leliana would just say what she means: <em>so</em>, <em>you're a mage too... </em>She's sick of them couching it in <em>we value your opinion</em> and <em>we hoped you'd lend us your expertise</em>. It's all just flowery ways of saying that they see her first and foremost for her connection to the Fade, in more ways than one. "I see. Do they want us to... remove them?”</p>
<p>“Not in so many words, but…"</p>
<p>"But yes, essentially."</p>
<p>"But yes," Leliana confirms. </p>
<p>People always want mages <em>removed. </em>They never seem to understand that means they need to be somewhere else. They don't want apostates and yet they don't seem to want any of the alternatives. Mages roaming free? Dreadful! Heretical! Mages staying confined inside their tower? Apparently that just won't do either. </p>
<p>"Right," Linnea says, and rubs at her forehead with a sign before remembering exactly what her gloves are covered in, and drops her hands hurriedly.</p>
<p>Cassandra, Linnea has found, is in turn both an open book and then impassive as a particularly stoic gatepost. Currently, she is the latter. Her tone is clipped but even, her expression carefully controlled. “Why did they come to the Inquisition?”</p>
<p>Leliana pauses for a moment, and they seem to share a significant glance. “Their initial appeal was to the Order.”</p>
<p>“But?”</p>
<p>“The Order… is not itself lately, I fear.”</p>
<p>Cassandra’s sound of disapproval is easy enough to interpret, at least. “So the Inquisition is the next best thing.”</p>
<p>Josephine taps her parchment thoughtfully. “Given our complement of Templar troops and the Lord Seeker’s behaviour at Val Royeaux, I suspect the people see us as the last remnants of the Order as they knew it.”</p>
<p>“I should hope not,” Cullen mutters, frowning down at the table. Linnea looks at him curiously, but the others take no notice of his restrained outburst.</p>
<p>“You object?” she asks, and he meets her eyes for a few, unreadable moments but doesn’t answer. The others seem to barely hear her, Leliana passing a scroll across to Cassandra as Josephine starts to reel off a list of suitable allies to call upon for assistance, but Linnea hardly listens.</p>
<p>Finally Cullen looks away and Linnea levels an irritated look at the side of his head. He has a remarkable knack for not hearing the questions he’d rather not answer. Funnily enough, they all come from her. Not to mention the way the others seem to have some kind of bizarre, selective indulgence when it comes to Cullen. He's sometimes barely present in these meetings, saying only a few words and looking otherwise pained to be there. On these occasions they all talk quite merrily over him, and Linnea's polite enquiries seeking his input are completely ignored.</p>
<p>“ - or, of course, if we request assistance from your cousin, Seeker -”</p>
<p>"Which one?”</p>
<p>Linnea bites her lip in an effort not to laugh at the disgust in Cassandra's voice.</p>
<p>“ - he would be well placed to send a few soldiers sympathetic to our cause -”</p>
<p>“We <em>do</em> have Templars,” Cullen says suddenly, cutting across the back and forth of Josephine’s suggestions. They turn to look at him. “Quite a few, even if the Order still outnumber us ten to one.” </p>
<p>“You think they should handle this, Commander?”</p>
<p>“I think this is exactly what they’ve trained for."</p>
<p>There are so many possible ways for Linnea to express her feelings on the matter with tact and diplomacy. Maker knows she's talked her way around other prickly issues with graciousness and tact, but right now, her exhaustion and irritation are bubbling too close to the surface.</p>
<p>"You can't be <em>serious</em>."</p>
<p>Their gazes all move to her immediately and she knows she ought to feel embarrassed at their scrutiny and her own lack of diplomacy, but it just won't come. </p>
<p>Cullen presses his lips together. "I beg your pardon?"</p>
<p>"You can't seriously think that given -" She gestures widely and a little hysterically, trying to encompass all of Thedas somehow in the movement, "- <em>everything </em>- that sending <em>Templars</em> to <em>remove </em>a group of <em>frightened mages</em> -"</p>
<p>"I'm sure I don't need to remind you of the primary purpose of the Templar Order."</p>
<p>"Oh, you absolutely don't," she agrees, in a would-be amiable tone that comes out too tight to be even remotely friendly. "But it's very good of you to demonstrate my point so obligingly."</p>
<p>"Perhaps," Leliana says firmly, "we should start by considering -"</p>
<p>"You're deliberately misunderstanding my suggestion," Cullen continues, and Linnea is briefly and savagely gratified that he is as dedicated as she is to continuing their argument, Leliana be damned. She keeps her voice steady if a little icy. </p>
<p>"Please do elaborate, Commander."</p>
<p>"I'm not passing judgement on the rebellion or the Order's part in it, I'm merely saying that Templar training is undoubtedly the most efficient way to deal with uncontrolled magic."</p>
<p>"I'm not doubting your training," she says, and watches him flinch at the 'your' with interest. "But why jump so quickly to the possibility of uncontrolled magic? We know nothing of the sort."</p>
<p>"We know that Perendale requested our help," Cullen says, his jaw as stiff as she's ever seen it. "Why ask if there's nothing to be afraid of?"</p>
<p>"You're making rather a lot of assumptions."</p>
<p>He just looks at her for a moment with an expression that looks hollowed out, somehow. He seems very far away, like whatever she says can't possibly reach him from across the vast gulf between them.</p>
<p>This is the problem. This is what trips her up every time.</p>
<p>There's the Cullen of the training ground, the Cullen with a lopsided smile and a low chuckle who makes wry jokes and treats her like an equal. And then -</p>
<p>- and then there's this. The Cullen that is filled to the brim with fear and distrust, and she can't see even a glimmer of the other in the impassive eyes in front of her.</p>
<p>Finally, he speaks. The worst part of it is he seems to be trying to defuse the situation. "Perhaps you're too close to the matter."</p>
<p>"Too close?" She thinks her voice might actually be shaking. She's not even sure what with. Anger, hopefully. That's an emotion she can grab hold of with both hands, and so she does, enthusiastically. "<em>Too close </em>-"</p>
<p>"Enough," Cassandra says flatly, "this is a theological debate for another time that provides no practical solutions."</p>
<p>There's a long silence where Linnea and Cullen just look at each other before Cullen looks away, Cassandra glowering at them both the whole while.</p>
<p>"Very well," Linnea says, and she's just about stopped the shaking but her voice sounds brittle to her ears. "My <em>practical</em> analysis is that there’s nothing to say they’re even posing a threat, they're more likely just trying to stay alive. I think that given current events, sending Templars might easily be read as a threat."</p>
<p>“They’d be flying Inquisition colours,” Cullen says, “it’s not as if we’re representing the Order.”</p>
<p>“A Templar’s a Templar,” she says wearily, not meeting his eyes. She'll just be disappointed by what she sees in them. “It’s not the colours they're afraid of, Commander.”</p>
<p>"And if they're hostile?”</p>
<p>“As mages are wont to be," she says bitterly, but presses her lips together before she loses control of herself. </p>
<p>"That isn't what I meant."</p>
<p>“Perhaps we should consider the possibility,” Josephine says smoothly, “whilst hoping it can be resolved peacefully.”</p>
<p>There's a long moment of silence before Linnea realises they're waiting for her. Of course they are. Of <em>course</em>.</p>
<p>"A few Templars, as a precaution," she says heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose and no longer caring if she gets corpse goo over her face. Maker knows it's everywhere else. "Make the rest of the numbers up from the infantry, have the Templars bring up the rear. Inquisition colours only."</p>
<p>She chances a quick glance up to see Cullen nod tersely. </p>
<p>“It's settled, then,” Leliana says, and there's a general rustle as they all start to gather up their various papers and missives. “Until tomorrow.”</p>
<p>Linnea leans forward to rest her hands on the table, weary to the bone and too tired now to even attempt to hide it. Cullen leaves first and she is painfully aware of his muttered apology as he brushes awkwardly past her, moving slightly to let him past but still too angry to look at him directly. Josie and Cassandra follow.</p>
<p>Linnea stays there for a moment, hoping that she'd just missed Leliana leaving too, but when she looks up, there she is, watching her with a sharp expression. She raises an eyebrow.</p>
<p>“Will this be a problem?” Leliana doesn't have to elaborate.</p>
<p>Linnea scrubs her face with her hands before she answers. “No. There's - there's no problem.”</p>
<p>“Glad to hear it,” Leliana says, deceptively mild. “The Commander is not well versed in tact, I'm afraid. Might be something to bear in mind.”</p>
<p>Linnea tries not to grit her teeth. “I see."</p>
<p>“Something you have in common, no?” Leliana’s words are light and playful, but Linnea can't seem to manage more than a grimace to indicate her amusement. Leliana touches her fingers to Linnea’s elbow, and there's something strangely gentle about the gesture after weeks of coming to expect only a cool detachment from the spymaster. She almost startles at it. “You should get some rest.”</p>
<p>"Believe me, I'll be in my bed within the hour."</p>
<p>Leliana laughs. "A wise choice."</p>
<p>"I thought so," Linnea says, and runs a gloved hand through her hair with a wince. "Once I've washed the smell of plague-ridden undead off me, anyway. I just -"</p>
<p>When she doesn't continue, Leliana tilts her head to one side. "You just…?"</p>
<p>"Is that really what he thinks of us?" She hates the plaintive edge to her voice. "Of mages?"</p>
<p>"It isn't what he thinks of <em>you.</em>"</p>
<p>"I'm not interested in being an exception," she mutters, embarrassed that she even asked the question. She's wasting both her breath and her energy by caring at all.</p>
<p>"No?" Leliana pauses at the door. "Don't you do the same?"</p>
<p>"With what? With Cullen?"</p>
<p>"Perhaps."</p>
<p>"Not at all." Linnea furrows her brow. "At least, if you mean that I consider him some kind of exception."</p>
<p>"Have you ever heard of another Templar leaving the Order the way he has?"</p>
<p>Linnea snorts. "There are plenty of Templars wandering the Hinterlands eager to disprove that theory." </p>
<p>"Then I misspoke: have you ever heard of another Templar leaving that life the way he has? Others who've abandoned the Order want it reformed to better suit their purposes, not to leave it altogether."</p>
<p>"In that case, I suppose not." </p>
<p>"And yet you seem quite sure that any Templars approaching the mages at Perendale couldn't help but be an oppressive presence."</p>
<p>"I’m not sure that’s an entirely fair comparison,” Linnea says stiffly, hoping she’s not about to start another heated discussion. </p>
<p>“No, I suppose not." Leliana’s smile this time is at least apologetic. "Perhaps I’m talking around the point a little, too. A fair comparison or not, it may be something worth thinking about in the name of diplomacy if nothing else." </p>
<p>“Diplomacy with… Cullen?” </p>
<p>"Don't let me keep you, Herald,” Leliana says, rather than answering her question. “Your much deserved rest awaits."</p>
<p>Trust Leliana to send her away to sleep with enough questions to make rest impossible.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>"It's not even that I dislike him," she tells Varric airily, "if anything, it's that <em>he</em> doesn't like <em>me</em>. Is it my turn to discard?"</p>
<p>"Discard and pick up, or play a card and pick up." Varric slides his own discarded card across the table. "Now, who could possibly dislike you?"</p>
<p>"Oh, you know. The Chantry, the Imperium, the Rebellion, Orlais -"</p>
<p>"Ah, but they don't dislike <em>you</em>," Varric says, taking Linnea's discarded card and moving it to the correct pile with a patient grin. "They dislike the <em>Herald of Andraste.</em> It's politics, not personal."</p>
<p>"Well, that's reassuring. I'll remember that next time one of them is trying to kill me."</p>
<p>Varric chuckles and draws another card, fanning out his hand with a well practiced motion. "See? Who wouldn't delight in your sparkling wit?"</p>
<p>"You always compliment me right before you win," Linnea says with a certain amount of suspicion. She discards another card and then takes a replacement, only needing to be prompted by Varric's raised eyebrow this time. "The more effusive you are, the more dramatic my loss."</p>
<p>"Witty <em>and</em> perceptive."</p>
<p>Her eyes narrow further. "You must be sitting on quite a hand."</p>
<p>“But so suspicious," Varric continues with an amused glint in his eyes, "so quick to declare a compliment false, or a colleague's intentions unfriendly-"</p>
<p>"You agree, then," she says, eager to circle back to Cullen and the way his ability to irritate her has worked its way under her skin,"he <em>is </em>unfriendly."</p>
<p>"I was talking about me, actually, but please continue." Varric raises an eyebrow. "This has really got to you, huh?"</p>
<p>"No," she says haughtily, playing one of the cards in her hand she thinks are innocuous. Varric doesn't comment, so she must be right. "It's annoying, I'll grant you that, but I'm not about to lose any sleep over it."</p>
<p>"Of course not. That's why you've spent most of the past hour talking about it."</p>
<p>"That's -" She flounders for a moment as Varric calmly plays his own card, which she barely registers. Has she? Maker's breath, he might be right. She wants to hurl herself directly into the frozen lake outside. Burn a hole in the ice and hope the bracingly cold water freezes her back to her senses. "I have <em>not</em>."</p>
<p>"Here I am, trying to help you refine an important life skill, and you just want to talk about the handsome Templar." Varric sighs theatrically. "You wound me," he adds, looking nothing of the sort.</p>
<p>"Varric! You're making this sound so sordid, I was merely complaining about him in a <em>professional capacity</em>, nothing to do with his - his handsomeness -"</p>
<p>"But you <em>do</em> think he's handsome," Varric says slyly, making no move to play his next card now he's found a much more interesting game. </p>
<p>She looks him directly in the eye, because to do anything less is to admit defeat before she's even started. "Honestly, I haven't really thought about it."</p>
<p>"Herald, you're talking to a professional liar." He grins, sharper than steel. "You'll have to do better than that."</p>
<p>"Fine. I suppose he's passably good looking."</p>
<p>"Ah, <em>passably.</em> Which explains why you're blushing."</p>
<p>"Hardly," she says, but not before she reaches up a hand automatically to press against her cheek, which is - regrettably - rather warm. </p>
<p>"Now, now, there's no need to be embarrassed," Varric says, in a tone of voice that clearly says he delights in her embarrassment and intends to drag it out as long as possible. "I have it on good authority that our stoic commander has caught the eye of more than just you."</p>
<p>"Really?" Linnea raises an eyebrow. "You're going for the jealousy angle? You're off your game."</p>
<p>"I can definitely see the appeal," Varric continues with that gleeful sense of mischief she ordinarily delights in, "although if he was one of my characters I'd have him training topless a bit more often, maybe lean into the 'troubled ex-Templar' angle more heavily -"</p>
<p>"Oh, please. Cullen's hardly troubled."</p>
<p>Varric just looks at her, mischief overtaken somewhat with a more serious scrutiny. It lasts only a moment. "Let it be noted you didn't object to the topless part."</p>
<p>Linnea glares at him. "Regardless," she says firmly, "none of this is relevant to what I was saying."</p>
<p>"Of course. These are <em>professional</em> concerns."</p>
<p>"They are," she says flatly, and slams a card down on the table in a transparent attempt to restart their game. Varric ignores it, grinning widely, and she finds that today she has no energy for her usual indulgence of his gentle nosiness. "Master Tethras," she continues stiffly, "I'm afraid you're looking for a better story in all this than I can possibly provide. I hate to disappoint, but there really isn't an exciting, forbidden romance here. If that's what you want, you'll have to write it yourself."</p>
<p>"Is that so?"</p>
<p>"He thinks I should be locked up," Linnea says, "he thinks I'm dangerous and uncontrollable. It might make an acceptable horror story, but certainly not a romance."</p>
<p>Varric lets out a low whistle. "Curly actually said that?"</p>
<p>"He doesn't have to." She shrugs. "You knew him in Kirkwall when he was a proper Templar, didn't you? I bet he was so uptight and proper it was painful to even look at."</p>
<p>"We didn't talk much," Varric says, and she suspects he's being deliberately vague. He's very good at that. "Kirkwall was - well, Kirkwall had its fair share of magical problems."</p>
<p>"So Cullen alludes to at every possible moment," she mutters. </p>
<p>"I'm not sure you should take it so personally," Varric says kindly, placing his hand of cards down on the table. </p>
<p>"How else should I take it?" she demands despite herself, regretting that the one person in Haven she feels like she can really talk to is getting the brunt of all this. She doesn't even know Varric that well, but she finds herself talking about everything with him anyway, finding him kind and open even as she remains convinced he's also mining her incessantly for material. Can it really be both? She hears them all muttering quietly about the Circle mage Herald, so sheltered, so quick to trust, so <em>naiv</em>e. Maybe they're right. "I'm still an apostate."</p>
<p>"Yet you never joined the Rebellion," Varric says, and it isn't a direct question but this time she's certain he's mining her for information. </p>
<p>"I didn't," she says carefully, trying to feel less uncomfortable under his shrewd gaze. "That doesn't mean I don't support their cause."</p>
<p>Varric's eyes soften. "Then why stay at Ostwick?" </p>
<p>"Some left," she says, "but I had - responsibilities." It's close enough to the truth. "Circles aren't just full of hardened, battle-ready mages, you know. There are children, and Tranquil, and even just mages without an aptitude for the thing that makes them feared. That always seemed like a particularly cruel form of irony to me."</p>
<p>"And the rebels wouldn’t have looked out for them?”</p>
<p>“No," she says shortly, something twisting painfully inside her chest. "They weren't particularly bothered about collateral damage when they fought their way out of Ostwick Circle, anyway."</p>
<p>"There's no such thing as a clean rebellion," Varric says thoughtfully, "and I don't know that there's a right way to feel about that."</p>
<p>"The Ostwick templars left quietly enough," she says bitterly, "another ironic twist, isn't it? That over the course of my life in the Circle, they almost certainly wronged me more than any of my fellow mages, but when it came to it, they left in the middle of the night without even a word."</p>
<p>"Did any stay?"</p>
<p>"A few. The senior enchanters voted to stay neutral and they were happy to keep them around. No one wanted more bloodshed after the rebels smashed up the place." </p>
<p>Varric's voice is very gentle, like he's talking to a bolting horse. She'd be offended if it wasn't working so well. Maker knows she's bolted away from this conversation enough times. "Bloodshed?"</p>
<p>"They started to destroy the phylacteries, which I don't think anyone actually objected to, but Lydia was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'm not sure if they even meant to kill her. I can't decide what's worse: a tragic, stupid accident, or a fight they never wanted her to walk away from. I didn't -" Linnea notices her voice is betraying her rather more than she intended, and stops for a moment to will away the forlorn edges. </p>
<p>"Well, I didn't much feel like travelling with the people who'd murdered my mentor in cold blood, no matter what I thought of their cause. I know the rebellion isn't all like that. But - they were. And that's what I saw."</p>
<p>"I'm sorry."</p>
<p>"It's hardly the worst story you'll hear from the past few months. Anyway -" She gets to her feet, hand of cards abandoned. She's not sure where she's going, maybe she'll just sit by the lake and feel sorry for herself. Watch the Breach glimmer until she's cold through and numb. "It's getting late. Thank you as always for your tutelage -"</p>
<p>"Hey," Varric says firmly enough to at least stop her from walking away from the table. "Hey, now. I've upset you."</p>
<p>"Not at all," she says, trying to match his gentleness. "You've overindulged me, maybe."</p>
<p>"We all deserve a little overindulgence now and then," he says, "how do you think I sell any books?" This is why she likes him, even as she's doubting her own judgement for talking so freely to him. He's just kind. It's something the world doesn't seem to be doling out much, these days. He always makes her smile.</p>
<p>"I think you were about to win, anyway. Don't you want to end on a high?"</p>
<p>"Absolutely," he agrees, "which is why you're going to sit down again and we'll get Buttercup and Tiny to join us for a rousing game of Antivan Slammers. Even Buttercup can play that, she likes hitting the table, and Tiny likes drinking her <em>under </em>it." Varric grins, sensing Linnea's indecision. "Come on, it'll be fun. Take your mind off things."</p>
<p>He is, as always, a master of persuasion, and never crows about his victories, so sitting back down is easy because it doesn't feel like a defeat. She takes a deep breath, and he doesn't mention that either. "I'm not sure I know Antivan Slammers."</p>
<p>"Then consider it part of your ongoing gambling education," Varric says, scooping up the cards and starting to shuffle then. Linnea tries to get a glimpse of what she thinks was his winning hand as he does so, but he folds them in too quickly, enjoying her unsatisfied curiosity. "And for what it's worth," he says, "the last place you deserve to be in is a horror story. I don't know much, but I do know my genres. You can trust me on that one."</p>
<p>She smiles then, warmed by his determination to make her evening better. "I think I might have ended up in one anyway. Have you looked at the sky recently?"</p>
<p>"And yet, you walked out of the Fade and saved our asses. Just because there's a lot of weird shit doesn't mean it has to be scary."</p>
<p>"So what am I in, then?" She leans back in her chair. "Which publisher would you pitch this one to?"</p>
<p>"Good question." Varric grins wider as he continues shuffling. "Epic adventure? Saving the world against all odds? Either way, there's definitely still room for a romance subplot." His grin has grown mischievous all over again.</p>
<p>"Varric."</p>
<p>"I'm just teasing," he says, and shuffles the cards in a complicated motion that impresses her despite her best efforts. "Anyway, my editor is always reminding me how my romance serial 'underperformed', so by no means take romantic advice from me."</p>
<p>"You're being modest. The <em>Randy</em> Dowager practically uses you as a benchmark." </p>
<p>"If you're trying to distract me, then it won't work - although we will absolutely be talking about your familiarity with <em>that </em>publication later, you can't wriggle out of that one. Anyway, here's my unsolicited advice: Curly doesn't hate you. And<em>,</em>" he adds, with a sly look that makes her blush inexplicably, "I don't think you really hate him, either."</p>
<p>She splutters for a moment, eyes narrowed. "You're completely insufferable, has anyone else told you that?"</p>
<p>"Our very own Lady Seeker, at least twice a day. Curly, yesterday, when I managed to get a game out of him and he had to cough up the cash."</p>
<p>"A game? A <em>card</em> game?" She blinks at him. "With Cullen?"</p>
<p>"But of course," Varric says smoothly, "that wouldn't interest you, because you don't care."</p>
<p>"I don't." She clamps her mouth shut furiously, but her own burning curiosity betrays her once more. "I mean, seriously? Did he actually, seriously <em>gamble </em>or are you messing with me?"</p>
<p>"You'll just have to ask him," Varric says cheerfully, dealing out four hands with an infuriatingly smug expression. "Let's get Tiny and Buttercup and get this party started, huh?"</p>
<p>"Insufferable," she mutters, dragging her cards across the table and trying not to laugh. "Just insufferable."</p>
<p>He grins, and reaches across the table to pat her hand. "Hey now," he says, his voice soft again. "Isn't this a better way to spend an evening than sitting alone and wallowing?"</p>
<p>"Your tactics are dirty, Master Tethras," she tells him sternly, but her smile is genuine. </p>
<p>Not a horror story, then. Not when you have friends that refuse to let the darkness in.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Cullen is waiting for her when she next returns to Haven. Linnea doesn’t pay him much attention at first, assuming he has business with Cassandra, but the Seeker dismounts smoothly from her horse and Cullen is still standing there, watching Linnea.</p>
<p>Linnea swings one leg around and slides from her own horse considerably less smoothly than Cassandra, Cullen holding out a hand politely and Linnea instead grabbing desperately nearer his elbow as her stiff and unsteady legs do their level best to embarrass her. To his credit, he takes her weight without flinching, and with his other hand steadying her waist he sets her firmly on her aching feet in a motion discreet enough that only Cassandra notices enough to let out a snort.</p>
<p>She ought to be offended, really. She <em>wants</em> to be offended, but she can't find anything condescending about either the help he offered her or his expression, so it's hard to find a reason to be. His hands don't stay on her waist a second longer than she needs to regain her balance and he’s even polite enough not to comment on the bow legged wince she briefly allows herself.</p>
<p>It is - strangely - good to be back, beyond the promise of a real bed and a real meal and maybe, dare she hope, to be properly <em>clean </em>for the first time in weeks. Haven is a known quantity. Having spent twenty years of her life in the same building doing the same things with the same people, she couldn’t help but develop a certain fondness for known quantities. Even Cullen, for all the awkward tension that occasionally flares up between them, is at least a familiar face.</p>
<p>She pats her horse fondly on her neck as Cullen takes the reins and nods to one of Dennet’s people. She hadn’t ridden a horse since she was seven until a scant few months ago, and the only part she seemed to be able to remember was where they like to be scratched. </p>
<p>“Your poor darling,” she tells the mare softly, scratching her idly behind the ear, “the nonsense you have to put up with, Pou.”</p>
<p>Cullen clears his throat. “Er, your horse’s name is…?”</p>
<p>“Orlesian,” she says, giving Pou another scratch and biting back a grin as she looks back at Cullen, as deadpan as she can manage. She can't begin to explain the joy she takes in perplexing him like this. It's a bad habit.</p>
<p>“Right.” Cullen hands her over to Dennet’s stablehand, scratching Pou’s withers absently in a way that makes Linnea think he knows where they like to be scratched, too. Interesting. Do Templars even particularly value horsemanship? They didn't seem to at Ostwick. She stores that little nugget away for a rainy day, but it makes her feel rather warmer towards him watching Pou gently nudge his shoulder with her nose. She's grown fiercely fond of her horse.</p>
<p>“Anyway,” she says pleasantly, newly determined to smooth things over between them. There’s a giant hole in the sky. She really has to prioritise. He nods his head towards Haven and she falls into step beside him. “I trust all is well here.”</p>
<p>“And with you too, Herald,” he says in return, and she wrinkles her nose without thinking. Cullen notices with an awkward start. “Lady Trevelyan,” he corrects cautiously, and she has to really press her lips together to stop laughing this time.</p>
<p>“Mages don't inherit titles,” she says, but takes pity on him and continues before he can stumble over another attempt at greeting her. “Was there something you wanted to discuss?”</p>
<p>“Something I wanted to show you, actually.” He keeps walking and she keeps pace, watching him curiously from the corner of her eye. He’s never really taken the initiative to summon her to see something like this before. “It’ll just take a moment,” he adds, “I’m sorry to drag you away before you’ve even had a chance to catch your breath.”</p>
<p>Another interesting nugget. It would seem that the War Council summons on her arrival don’t come from Cullen, then. She tucks that one away too. “Better you than Leliana," she mutters, and startles a half-laugh from him. "There's always so much for me to <em>read</em>."</p>
<p>Cullen even seems to make a wry joke of his own, even as he fumbles the landing. "No reading required for this, Lady H- er, I mean -"</p>
<p>"Linnea is fine," she says, giving him another half curious, half amused sideways look. She'll be truly astonished if he ever takes her up on that, but he nods nonetheless.</p>
<p>He looks slightly unwell again today, she notices. There are dark circles under his eyes and his lips have a colourless look to them. He seems alert enough though, and is striding along at a pace fast enough that she's feeling the aches and pains in her legs again.</p>
<p>He leads her past a few rows of soldiers training and gestures at a smaller group on the outskirts, sending fireballs flying towards a training dummy. “The mages from Perendale Circle. They arrived yesterday.” </p>
<p>“I didn't know we were to expect them, actually. How was the situation in Perendale?”</p>
<p>Cullen shoots her a sideways glance. “Diffused without casualties, thankfully.”</p>
<p>“Meaning?” She raises an eyebrow. "Please don't sugarcoat it on my account, Commander, I'd rather have the truth. I can -" She presses her lips together briefly before she manages to force it out. "I can admit I was wrong." </p>
<p>“You weren't at all, actually.” He folds his arms and stares stubbornly into the middle distance, and she could almost laugh at what a picture they make. “The mages were reacting to perceived threats from the locals and were on the defensive when our soldiers arrived. They were initially hostile before they realised we weren't there to invoke -” He grimaces, looks down at his feet. “The relative lack of Templars allowed for negotiation without further violence.”</p>
<p>She doesn't know quite what to say to that, or quite how to interpret his intentions in showing this to her. A peace offering? They've disagreed before and he's never felt the need to make amends, nor had she expected him to. </p>
<p>“Well, I'm glad to hear it,” she says eventually. “A peaceful solution, and it seems you have some new recruits.”</p>
<p>“It would seem so,” he agrees, and there's something a little like a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Although I may leave their training to Madame de Fer.”</p>
<p>“I imagine she's quite the taskmaster.”</p>
<p>Cullen snorts and chances a look back at her. “Quite.”</p>
<p>“How are they doing?”</p>
<p>“Very well, all things considered. I know how difficult it can be to adjust after spending so long in such an insular community.” He gives her an uncertain sideways glance this time. “Perhaps you can relate.”</p>
<p>The words sting, though it's clearly a poor attempt at camaraderie rather than a jab at her inexperience. She takes a breath and quashes her irritation, trying instead for a smile. It keeps coming back to bite her. <em>She's lived such a sheltered life, </em>the Orlesian whispers go, <em>she's making decisions about a world she hardly knows.</em> </p>
<p>He's right, of course, but even if his remark wasn't intended maliciously, she still doesn't want to give him any further ammunition to doubt her. “I’m glad to hear it's going well,” she says, and he inclines his head slightly as if to acknowledge her polite rebuttal.</p>
<p>They stand in a pleasant enough silence for a few moments, though Cullen evidently still has something to say, and she’s not inclined to prompt him for it. He’ll say what he means in due time, no doubt. In the meantime, she wonders idly how the training dummy is repelling fire so effectively; it must be one of Vivienne’s tricks. The others didn’t fare half so well when she was throwing them at Cassandra the other week.</p>
<p>“If the situation had escalated,” Cullen says eventually, “I’m not certain three Templars would have been enough. I would have liked to send a few more.”</p>
<p>She truly doesn't understand him. One minute, he seems to be offering some kind of tentative friendship, the next he's back rehashing the same old arguments. She folds her arms.</p>
<p>“I suppose we’re lucky it didn’t, then.”</p>
<p>Cullen draws a sharp breath. “Forgive me, but I’d rather not be relying on luck.”</p>
<p>“I don’t think we were,” she says, watching an older mage reposition another’s fingers on his staff, correcting their grip. He’s so young; he can’t be long out his Harrowing. “If we were relying on anything, it was the assumption that mages aren’t necessarily predisposed to violence.”</p>
<p>“That wasn’t what I - “ He takes another breath and lets it out in a weary sigh. His next few sentences are stilted, reeled off a little too fast. He's rehearsed them, but at whose insistence, she wonders wryly. </p>
<p>“I apologise if my caution towards the dangers of magic seems like a personal slight, I assure you it was not my intention. I merely wished to anticipate as many possible outcomes as I could and make sure our troops were adequately equipped to deal with them. In this case, I felt - and still feel - that templars were the best solution.” He casts another look at the mages training, but avoids her eyes. “I’m glad the situation was resolved so easily, and I thought you’d like to see for yourself. I won’t take up any more of your time.”</p>
<p>“Commander - “</p>
<p>He nods shortly and makes as if to walk away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have -”</p>
<p>“<em>Cullen</em>,” she says, and that stops him in his tracks. “Please - wait.”</p>
<p>He nods stiffly again and clasps his hands behind his back. “Of course.”</p>
<p>There is another brief pause while she grasps for words in frustration. “I appreciate your caution,” she says finally, “but I can’t help but feel slighted that you seem to be expecting the worst from mages at any given moment. Can you understand that?”</p>
<p>“Magic is dangerous,” he says, instead of the apology she half-expected, “I’ve seen the damage it can do.”</p>
<p>“You don’t seem to expect the worst from a swordsman, or an archer. They wield something just as dangerous.”</p>
<p>“It’s not the same,” he argues, but he has deflated a little. “Magic is - unpredictable. It’s -” He huffs out a frustrated breath. “It’s not the same,” he repeats stubbornly, before scrubbing his hand across his face wearily. “This isn't - I rather considered this a job well done, actually. I didn't intend to argue with you again, believe it or not.” </p>
<p>At that, he shoots her a wry smile that has a rare enough warmth behind it that she's returning it before she realises it. A peace offering, then. A poorly extended and badly executed one, but a peace offering nonetheless. </p>
<p>She could fight him every step of the way, but - there’s a <em>hole</em> in the <em>sky</em>, and he’s clearly trying to meet her halfway, and she’s just so <em>tired</em> - </p>
<p>"All right, then,” she says softly, still rather taken aback by the way he smiled at her. "You're off the hook, Commander. Argument averted."</p>
<p>"I'm glad to hear it."</p>
<p>“Of course we could still have it, if you'd prefer,” she offers, fighting a grin. “For form’s sake.”</p>
<p>And then, he actually chuckles. It's disarmingly charming. "That's… kind of you to offer."</p>
<p> “As you said, it was a job well done in the end. Leliana always says a little friendly conflict is good for leadership. Helps us make the best decisions.”</p>
<p>“Does she now,” he mutters, “that explains a lot.”</p>
<p>Linnea laughs tightly, but the tension has mostly drained from the situation, and with that, she lets the exhaustion she's been fighting since she arrived finally show in the slump of her shoulders.</p>
<p>Cullen watches her intently. “A long journey, I take it?”</p>
<p>“And then some,” she agrees lightly, straightening up and rolling her shoulders. “You’ll have to excuse me -”</p>
<p>“Of course, I shouldn’t have kept you.”</p>
<p>“Not at all, I’m glad you showed me.” She levels him a small smile. “Thank you.”</p>
<p>And then, in the wake of their tentative truce and shared victory, he looks at her the most directly he has since she first stepped out of the Fade. She hopes to see that same smile still there, the soft edges to his expression that make her stomach twist, because she's hopeless and just can't learn a lesson. The smile still lingers, but there’s something else in his expression that is just - just <em>unsettling</em>, like he’s afraid of her, or worse, like he’s afraid of her being afraid of him, or just that what she thinks of him matters after all this time he’s seemed to project the opposite. She doesn't know what to do with any of those.</p>
<p>"I'll keep Leliana off your trail," he says finally, and she's glad for the excuse to laugh again and shake off the unsettling feeling before they part ways, and true to his word, there's no knock at her door as she's conjuring up steaming water and peeling off her stained clothes.</p>
<p><em>I know how difficult it can be to adjust after spending so long in such an insular community</em>, he said, and she is at once furious and dismayed to find his words echoing round and round in her head as she lies in the hot water and starts to scrub blissfully at her aching legs. He wasn't trying to be unkind.</p>
<p>There's something else her traitorous brain keeps pushing to the forefront as well, the way she nearly fell from Pou and his hand on her waist as he set her on the ground. That brief moment where he waited to check she was steady before letting go. That unguarded smile when they managed to find some common ground. </p>
<p>What she finds herself coming back to over and over as she soaks is that telling little prefix before that part about insular communities: <em>I know</em>. Now that she has some distance from her defensiveness, it didn’t sound like a commentary on his charges when he was stationed at a Circle, it sounded personal. <em>I know</em> how difficult it can be, he said, with an edge of embarrassment or maybe self-deprecation, and he looked at her like - like - <em>Make</em>r, as if he was offering some kind of concession, an offer of solidarity or support, and she shot him down. She slammed the door shut in his face.</p>
<p>She jams the heels of her palms into her eyes as she leans back against the side of the tin bath and groans.</p>
<p>Leliana’s right. She hasn’t any tact at all.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Linnea didn't cry when Lydia died. There wasn't time. The rebels left and someone had to sweep up the glass and blood strewn about the tower from the smashed phylacteries. Someone had to pick the shards carefully from Sara's feet and stroke her hair as she cried herself to sleep. Someone had to distract the little ones as something large and terrifying raged on outside the walls, to make an inventory of all the potions and ingredients still in their store cupboards, to help put wards on the doors, to block up the cellar entrance. There was so much to be done.</p>
<p>When the First Enchanter asked her to go to the Conclave, she'd refused at first. She was the closest thing they had left to the kind of battlemage that the ordinary people are afraid of, though she hadn't cut her teeth on that quite yet. In the end, that's exactly why she had to be the one to go. There wasn’t anyone else.</p>
<p>Lydia was a loyalist to the bone, like Vivienne but without the noble lover or the scheming or the love for high society. Linnea isn’t sure there’d be much of a place for her in the new world the Rebellion has created, but she deserved to see it anyway. She was kind and gentle and curious, and the apprentices may have complained that she was dull but Linnea always felt that the world could do with a lot more people in it like Lydia. </p>
<p>Now that she’s gone, Linnea doesn’t find herself wishing for her exacting magical tutor or for someone to perfect her technique, but for the compassion Lydia was always able to find for everyone. She tries to find this in herself, hunting for game near the Crossroads, delivering herbs to the healer, or bringing blankets to the refugees huddled in the caves. She tries, and she hopes that it’s worth something, even as she knows that she’s too sharp with her tongue and her judgement and her magic, and that she studied Lydia’s technique with the dedication she should’ve instead turned to learning how to be kind.</p>
<p>There wasn't time to mourn her before the Conclave, and there certainly hasn't been time since. She lit a single candle in Haven's chantry, but couldn't even bear to watch it burn down. It isn't enough. </p>
<p>Instead, she sees Lydia in every small tragedy the war has brought. Every lifeless body they find with a broken staff. Every pointless loss in a conflict that could've been avoided in a thousand different ways.</p>
<p>It's like she told Varric: it's hardly the worst story from the past few months. It's a drop in the ocean. One small tragedy amongst many.</p>
<p>But it's hers, and she carries it close to her heart, always, always.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Tevinter?" Josie says again weakly, even though they've been over this twice already, and Linnea had already briefed them all in a letter that reached Haven before her. Even so, she can hardly blame her. </p>
<p>"We can't get involved," Cullen says, something else they've already discussed at length. She doesn't entirely disagree with him, and meets his eyes with a weary look, though it isn't directed at him. They rode to Haven as quickly as they could, barely stopping to rest. "There's so much to be wary of. The rift you described that affected <em>time itself </em>-"</p>
<p>"I know," Linnea says, "believe me, I know."</p>
<p>"Did you get a chance to talk to many of the rebels?"</p>
<p>"A few."</p>
<p>"How do they feel about this?" It's the first question Leliana has really asked. "Do they agree with Fiona's actions?"</p>
<p>"I don't think most of them are exactly thrilled to be indentured, certainly there must be more Tranquil besides Clemence who don't want to be - to be <em>disposed of </em>by the magisters, but I can't think how to reach them, how to get word -" Linnea rubs at her forehead. "Or to any of them who don't want this, Tranquil or otherwise, but they're not exactly free to leave."</p>
<p>"We can't be seen to be trying to steal from under Alexius' nose," Leliana says firmly, giving Linnea a particularly piercing look.</p>
<p>“I know,” she says again, “I really do, I just -“</p>
<p>Leliana softens her voice. “You want to help them. It’s understandable.”</p>
<p>“What I <em>want</em> is to slap some sense into then,” Linnea mutters, and rubs at her temples again. “How did this happen?” She’s not truly asking the question of anyone in the room, but she demands it loudly nonetheless. “How could they have let this happen?”</p>
<p>“People in difficult positions make difficult choices.”</p>
<p>“Difficult choices,” Linnea repeats flatly, and closes her eyes briefly against the flash of bitter anger that wells up behind the words. “Well, I hope it was worth it. I hope all the lives lost, all the people they <em>killed</em> were worth it. This is the freedom they died for.”</p>
<p>Leliana and Josephine share a look, and Josie begins delicately, “Lady Herald -“</p>
<p>“There was someone from Ostwick Circle there, you know. She was angry that I couldn’t remember her name, she accused me of being the senior enchanter’s ‘pet’, as if the real problem was ever this false sense of nepotism she’s created, and not, <em>oh yes</em>, the Templars being given free rein more often than not, or children being locked away for their entire life, or -“ Linnea grimaces. “I just hope it was worth it. I hope their newfound freedom is worth Lydia’s life, because thinking about how they killed her so they could completely <em>fuck this up -</em>“</p>
<p>She’s aware suddenly, by the way her voice cracks, that her anger has failed her. She’s not sure she can continue, and everyone else seems too stunned to say anything. She clears her throat. “Forgive me,” she says, but it comes out mortifyingly watery. She can’t quite see clearly for the tears building up in her eyes. Is she… is she crying? She has never wished more forcefully for the Fade to swallow her up.</p>
<p>“Lady Herald,” Josie says again, very gently, and Linnea buries her face in her hands.</p>
<p>“Well, this is embarrassing,” she says, aiming for self-deprecating but it just comes out muffled and pitiful. “I - I don’t what’s come over me -“</p>
<p>“Let’s take a break,” Josie says decisively, “we need some time to properly mull over your report.”</p>
<p>“A break,” Leliana agrees, and they both immediately start gathering things up and talking brightly to each other in a way that is clearly intended to distract from her sudden outburst, but Linnea is grateful anyway. </p>
<p>She keeps her head in her hands, rubbing at her eyes desperately, and doesn’t dare surface from them until she hears the door click behind their determinedly incessant chatter. Cassandra is murmuring something besides her, but eventually she too seems to move towards the door, so she finally pulls her hands away, furiously rubbing at her cheeks with the heels of her thumbs. It’s all rather pointless; it seems that her useless emotions have stubbornly chosen this moment to surface and refuse to be squashed back down. She doesn’t cry, not normally. She’s cried more since the Conclave than she had in her entire life prior to it, although never in <em>front</em> of people, Maker’s <em>breath</em>.</p>
<p>She nearly jumps out her skin when she realises Cullen is still there, stood across the table from her in his customary place like a particularly rigid statue.</p>
<p>“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says at once, “I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>She blinks at him blearily. “You’re sorry?”</p>
<p>“For… startling you.”</p>
<p>“Oh. Of course.”</p>
<p>“And for… your tutor?” He looks awkward, though not as desperately uncomfortable as she might have imagined. </p>
<p>“Yes, she -“ Linnea has to break off again as her voice starts to get dangerously wavery once more. Her nose is starting to run in what she’s sure is a very unattractive way. She isn’t sure if there’s anyone on the continent she would rather be doing this in front of <em>less</em>. “I’m not usually this pathetic,” she manages, trying again for levity, but it evidently falls flat.</p>
<p>“It’s not - pathetic,” Cullen says, although the pause doesn’t do much to convince her that he’s in agreement. “Would you like -“</p>
<p>She wipes at her eyes again and sees that he’s edging tentatively round the table and is holding something out towards her, perhaps a piece of fabric. She squints at it through her tears with incredulity. “Is that a handkerchief?”</p>
<p>“Unfortunately, not quite,” he says, and the dry humour in his voice this time makes him sound a little less awkward. “Just a piece of cotton for polishing weapons. It is clean, though.”</p>
<p>“How chivalrous of you,” she mumbles as she takes it. </p>
<p>“Perhaps if it weren’t so stained.”</p>
<p>She lets out a watery laugh, and throws her last scraps of dignity to the wind as she blows her nose noisily. It is clean, though she can still smell the oil he must use. It’s slightly metallic with a fresh, grassy edge to it, a smell she’s come to associate with watching Cassandra clean her sword by the campfire. “Thank you. I’m sorry, I’m probably ruining it.”</p>
<p>“Not at all,” he murmurs, and just stands there patiently while she tries to mop herself up. It's all quite futile, as her horrible, useless tear ducts seem to take the presence of some kind of handkerchief as permission to up their game.</p>
<p>“This is very kind of you,” she says after a moment, “but you really don’t need to see - <em>this</em>. Please don’t feel you need to stay.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to intrude,” Cullen says immediately, “I just - I’m very sorry. I know how hard it is to lose people that were like your family.” His voice is low and as full of emotion as she’s ever heard it. “I lost many friends and mentors during the Blight.”</p>
<p>She blows her nose again and Cullen politely averts his gaze, which sends fresh waves of mortification through her. “Careful, Commander,” she says, “you’re dangerously close to expressing an actual emotion, and whatever would happen to your reputation then?”</p>
<p>Cullen looks both stunned and hurt, which she can immediately see is a fair reaction. Her and her stupid mouth. “That was cruel of me,” she says quietly, wanting to bite off her tongue. “It isn’t fair to try and embarrass you to take the attention away from my own embarrassment when you’re only trying to be kind to me.”</p>
<p>“It’s - I’m the one intruding.”</p>
<p>“And I’m the one being overly defensive because I already worry that you think I’m too emotionally involved in these sorts of issues,” she confesses, again too embarrassed to look him in the eye. “I’m sorry, Cullen.”</p>
<p>“It’s nothing,” he mutters, and she wipes at her eyes again just to cover her burning face.</p>
<p>“It isn’t,” she says, “I’m just a particularly graceless person, you’ll learn this about me. Terrible choice for a religious figure. I think there’s been some kind of awful mistake, to be honest.” She chances a look at him and can see a faint smile. “I’m just really quite terrible at processing normal, healthy emotions, as you can see. I prefer to avoid them wherever possible, if there was only some way I could just get rid of -“</p>
<p>She stops with a sudden awkwardness, and can see that the same thought is occurring to Cullen as they meet each other's gaze with matching expressions of vague horror. She feels nauseous. She thinks of Clemence, and the Tranquil she left behind at Ostwick, and she wonders if Cullen has ever been part of it. Can you go ten years as a Templar and not perform the Rite? Is there even a chance he hasn’t, or is that just wishful thinking?</p>
<p>The only thing that stops her from turning away in disgust is the stricken expression on his face. It shouldn’t mean anything, but it does.</p>
<p>“There I go again,” she says miserably, “I - look, thank you for being kind, I can only apologise that I seem unable to appreciate it. You tried to share something heartfelt and I responded dreadfully.”</p>
<p>“The grief is considerably fresher for you,” Cullen says, which she thinks is his way of saying that he’s allowing her some missteps. She feels particularly insensitive, even so.</p>
<p>“I’m still sorry for your losses, no matter how long it’s been.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” he says quietly, “it’s - Cassandra mentioned that - well. We haven’t had entirely dissimilar experiences. If - if you’d like to talk about it.”</p>
<p>Cullen looks uncomfortable once more, even more so than before, and Linnea looks up at him bleakly in sudden understanding. <em>Cassandra mentioned</em>. Of course. Her face burns afresh and her stupid, <em>stupid</em> eyes fill up with tears all over again.</p>
<p>“That’s very kind of you to offer,” she says, “but - forgive me, Cullen, I don’t want to be even more insensitive than I’ve already managed to be, but you’re clearly uncomfortable and I don’t want to drag this out. I really do appreciate your kindness, please don’t misunderstand, but I’m getting the distinct impression that someone suggested that you stay and offer support. Cassandra, I’m guessing?”</p>
<p>Cullen seems to freeze, so she doesn’t press the point and try to push an admission out of him. He’s not an experienced dissembler.</p>
<p>“She means well, but as I’ve already told Leliana, there isn’t a problem between us. We may have clashed to start with, but I think we’ve reached a good working relationship, don’t you? It’s - it’s fine if you don’t much like me,” she continues, speaking in a rush to try and stop it stinging quite so much. “We don’t have to be friends, or even <em>like</em> each other, really, as long as we can work together. The fact that you were willing to stay behind just now is further proof of your professional integrity, which I do appreciate.” She tries for a watery smile. “But please don’t make yourself uncomfortable on my account.”</p>
<p>Cullen still doesn’t say anything, back to his inscrutable self. She feels so, so, horribly stupid. Presumably he feels rather foolish himself at having been exposed, but at least he isn’t denying it. She couldn’t take the indignity of him actually admitting it out loud. She wishes he’d just leave; she feels as though she’s only a few minutes away from another round of tears, and she’d rather he was gone by then so she can get it out of her system in her own time.</p>
<p>“Thank you for the makeshift handkerchief,” she says awkwardly into the increasingly stifling silence, and finally, he moves, even if it’s just a terse nod.</p>
<p>“Lady Herald,” he says quietly, and he leaves without saying anything further. There’s nothing much to be said, really. </p>
<p>The minute he’s gone she slumps miserably against the wall. Mortification aside, she’d really thought for a few moments that he was there of his own accord. She’d thought perhaps after Perendale, after everything, they’d finally reached a place where they could be friends, or at least something approaching friendly, but - </p>
<p>- but, well. Perhaps not.</p>
<p>If she hasn’t taken the time to stop and mourn Lydia, she’s certainly not taking the time to stop and mourn this.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Of all the awkward places they’ve found a rift, above a river in a ravine has to be one of the worst, Linnea thinks, scrambling over the slippery rocks to the all-too-familiar backdrop of demons screeching. Her boots are soaked through and her feet are numb with the cold. Terror demons sound different to everyone, or so she's heard, and to her they sound barely human, although it doesn't make the sound any less awful. </p>
<p>She's just about got her footing steady again when Bull turns to gesture at her feet, his one good eye wary and his metal eyepatch shining with the ghostly green reflection of the rift. He’s far enough away that he has to yell over the roar of the waterfall.</p>
<p>"Hey, boss, you might want to -"</p>
<p>She glances down to see the familiar dancing streaks of green with only just enough time to step sideways hurriedly, throwing up a barrier as the terror demon shrieks and claws its way from the Fade, swiping at her with those long, horrifying hands. And those eyes, too, or whatever they are - the smattering of dark recesses across what would be a face, both too irregular and too regular to look anything other than horrible. Its jaw hinges loosely - at least, it’s close enough to a jaw that there’s no other word to use - and it screams again, barely a foot from her face. </p>
<p>She takes another step back - stumbles, really - but slams her staff into the river bed and watches ice crawl over the demon’s misshapen form, crackling along the limbs in fine, filigree patterns. Not enough to stop it dead in its tracks, but enough that she can see the grotesque sinews in its muscles strain to break it. She puts another step of distance between them and raises her staff again, this time to summon fire to creep in those hairline cracks, but one foot slips on a rock and her advantage is lost.</p>
<p>The demon swipes again, and she knocks its arm away with her staff, singeing it a little but without the full spell she intended. She parries two more blows with incredulity - clearly, being Cassandra’s personal training dummy is paying off - but the demon is larger and stronger, and it has her caught in an awkward position as they approach the ravine cliffside. The fourth swipe knocks her staff from her hands.</p>
<p>She lunges for her staff immediately but the terror demon does something she does not predict, reaching for her neck and wrapping its spiny fingers around it as it slams her into the cliff and holds her there. Through the stars in his vision as her head hits the rock, she sees her staff floating downstream. Well. That’s that, then. She holds her weight up by clinging onto its wrists, gasping for breath.</p>
<p>Linnea hasn’t seen a demon behave quite like this before. It brings its head closer to hers and just looks at her through those many dark eyes. For one confusing moment, she thinks that perhaps its inscrutable gaze is sympathetic, that they’re looking at each not as enemies but as just two very different creatures. She stays very still, wheezing quietly as it regards her, fingers still tight about her throat. Perhaps - </p>
<p>The moment passes abruptly. It screams and slams her against the cliff again, squeezing tighter around her neck. Perhaps not.</p>
<p>Linnea in turn digs her own fingers into the demon's arms, still gasping for breath but now decidedly unconflicted about sending scorching heat and flames licking up its limbs. Without a staff, it rushes from her hands messily, but there's something savagely satisfying about doing this without the sharp control the staff allows for. It isn't as efficient, and she can feel the greater strain on her mana as the demon starts to writhe and shriek.</p>
<p>Its grip loosens enough that she gulps in a mouthful of air gratefully, but even with its arms blackened and cracked it still holds on. She's going to need something more.</p>
<p>It's difficult for an ordinary mage to get the sort of power and force she's looking for without a staff to focus and channel, but an ordinary mage doesn't have a link straight to the Fade permanently crackling in their palm. And, if she's being charitable to herself, even before that she wasn't an ordinary mage. She was always <em>good</em>. Now, she's better.</p>
<p>There's a knack to closing rifts, to how she focuses through the mark and pinches and pulls, and Linnea starts to feel that same energy rushing into her palm. This time, it isn't going anywhere. She lets it sit and crackle in her body, exhilarated with the thrill of it. It's almost like drinking a lyrium potion. Drinking <em>ten </em>lyrium potions. She can't keep this up for long. </p>
<p>She lets it loose in one savage lash of fire, her vision turning to red and black smoke as the demon shrieks. It feels like the fingers around her throat crumble, and as she slides down the rock she throws her hand out again, and this time she does pull at the corners of the Fade, pulling the edges of the Rift together with one last burst of green light. The shriek turns more desperate and piercing than even before, and she grins with the thrill of victory.</p>
<p>Too soon. Those spiked fingers lash out one last time as the demon crumbles into nothingness, and she's winded and dizzy enough that it knocks her into the river easily. The demon is gone but it doesn't matter; she's exhausted enough that the current is more than capable of dragging her underwater and holding her there without any help from denizens of the Fade.</p>
<p>Linnea never learned to swim. Why would she? The Trevelyan heir had no particular need for it, and a Circle mage even less. </p>
<p>As she tries desperately to get some purchase on the passing rocks as she's carried away, she has the indignant thought that dying by <em>drowning</em> after banishing a demon with a spectacular piece of magic is just completely unacceptable. She refuses to go out like this. She absolutely <em>refuses </em>-</p>
<p>She's hauled bodily out of the water by the back of her coat and half-dragged up the bank in a motion that is otherwise surprisingly gentle, and she feels a firm slap on her back that can only be the Iron Bull. She finds herself on her hands and knees retching up Fereldan river water. It's a glamorous life, being Andraste's chosen.</p>
<p>"Better out than in," Bull says cheerfully but unhelpfully, and Linnea just groans down at the ground, drenched and exhausted. "That's it, get it all out."</p>
<p>"The rift?" she asks hoarsely, between undignified heaving. "I tried to close -"</p>
<p>"You closed it just fine. I grabbed your staff too. Not that you need it, apparently." Bull's tone is hard to read, even as he follows it up with: "Impressive."</p>
<p>"I don’t think I’m going to be making a habit of it, even so," she says breathlessly, and collapses down to lie on her back with a groan, feeling rather emptier of river water but too exhausted to contemplate getting to her feet. She raises her palms above her head to see them red and shiny. Thoroughly burned. "Shit," she adds vaguely.</p>
<p>"You really let them have it, boss. Remind me not to get on your bad side."</p>
<p>"Keep rescuing me from a watery death and you'll be just fine," she says, flexing her fingers and feeling the pain start to register as her adrenaline wears off. "Thanks for the save, by the way. It would've been much less impressive if I'd immediately drowned."</p>
<p>"Hey, that's what I'm here for," he says, and winks. Probably isn’t technically a wink, but the sentiment is intact even with one eye. "To make you look good." She turns her head with a wince to see Cassandra and Solas rushing over to join them on the bank, wearing alarmed expressions that make her oddly thankful that it was Bull and not them who fished her out. She has certainly looked better; she knows there's fresh blood running down her face, which presumably has something to do with her vivid memories of being slammed repeatedly into solid rock. </p>
<p>"It looks worse than it is,” she offers weakly, only to be met with a stern look from Cassandra and a politely disbelieving one from Solas. “Or... maybe it’s the other way round, I forget.”</p>
<p>Bull chuckles quietly but Solas just kneels beside her with a raised eyebrow. “Your hands,” he says simply, and Linnea accepts with a small, disheartened sigh that she’s not getting out of this one without a little fussing. She pushes herself up to a seated position with a groan and lets him take them, watching his calm face rather than Cassandra, who is prone to frowning. She knows it comes from concern, but it always looks like disapproval anyway.</p>
<p>“Drew from the Mark,” she says, and Solas nods. “Probably a bad idea.”</p>
<p>“Probably.”</p>
<p>“It worked, though,” she says slyly, and catches his eye, hoping for a smile. She doesn’t get one.</p>
<p>“I’m not sure it should have,” is all she gets, as he turns her hands over and she tries her best not to flinch. </p>
<p>“The demon <em>looked</em> at me,” she tries instead, “and for a moment, I almost thought…”</p>
<p>Solas looks at her again, holding her hands in his palms. They feel a little less awful already. “You thought?”</p>
<p>She hesitates; it seems like an odd detail to fixate on now she’s saying it out loud. “It didn’t seem like it wanted to hurt me, necessarily. It was like it was... curious.”</p>
<p>Solas doesn’t look back at her, and she can’t see his expression as he turns her hands back over and places them gently in her lap. “I’m no healer, but I’ll see what I can do. We should return to the camp.”</p>
<p>Linnea lets Cassandra pull her to her feet - by her elbows, and cautiously - and even as she surrenders a little to her inevitable brand of fussing, Linnea cranes her neck to try and see the look on Solas’ face.</p>
<p>When she manages to catch a glimpse, all she thinks is that he looks very, very tired, and very, very sad.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Solas heals her hands as best he can, but as he is at pains to continually point out it's hardly his area of expertise. Linnea is grateful nonetheless. He wraps them gently but firmly with cotton bandages and she knows even with that they're going to sting something awful tomorrow, but she can grit her teeth and bear it. She'll have to.</p>
<p>After her little stunt at the river, the Mark is staying somewhat active, and she notices Solas pause for a moment as he wraps it. She'll ask him about it when they next get a chance to speak privately, but she's not sure she wants Cassandra listening in on this one. Partly so she doesn't fuss, but also because there's a part of her that always wonders bitterly if they're actually more concerned for the Mark than for Linnea. It's what makes her useful, after all.</p>
<p>Solas wanders off on his own after that, Cassandra remaining by the fire to work at her sword with a whetstone, hardly necessary, but it's a ritual she clearly finds calming. Noticing Linnea watching her, she says, "Redcliffe tomorrow, then?"</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"It should be interesting."</p>
<p>"That's one way to put it," Linnea says mildly, waiting for Cassandra's amused snort and gratified when it comes. "I just hope - well."</p>
<p>"You hope you can help the rebel mages."</p>
<p>Linnea sighs. "I can't bear the thought of the rebellion ending this way. It's just -"</p>
<p>"A waste," Cassandra says simply, and Linnea hums in agreement.</p>
<p>"I've made my feelings mortifyingly clear on that front, I believe," Linnea mutters, knowing Cassandra will remember what she's referring to.</p>
<p>"There's no shame in grief."</p>
<p>"Perhaps not, but there is <em>some </em>shame in snivelling like a baby apropos of nothing."</p>
<p>Cassandra snorts again, and turns back to her sword. "That wasn't what I saw."</p>
<p>"I don't know why you're trying to spare me my dignity when you’ve just watched me spew up half a river.”</p>
<p>"I meant to ask," Cassandra says, "you're not a strong swimmer, I take it?"</p>
<p>"I'm not really a swimmer at all, to be honest with you, never mind the strength of it. I remember playing in the lake as a child, but there wasn't much call for aquatic pursuits in the Circle." </p>
<p>"I don’t imagine there was. No matter, I could teach you."</p>
<p>"I was afraid you'd say that," Linnea says glumly, and Cassandra smiles. "Sometimes I feel like all anyone does is teach me things."</p>
<p>"You're doing yourself a disservice. The exercises we do are just to enhance your combat abilities, you were already extremely capable."</p>
<p>"It's not so much that," Linnea says, "it's all the other things I seemed to have missed."</p>
<p>Cassandra cocks her head curiously to one side. "Such as?"</p>
<p>"Varric’s been refining my Wicked Grace. Blackwall's working on my horsemanship. Josie had to show me how to properly seal a message to be sent by crow." Linnea scuffs her feet in the dirt with a shrug. "I know what they all say about me. That I don't know anything about the world."</p>
<p>"<em>They</em> say a lot of things, none of it worth paying much attention to."</p>
<p>"They're not exactly wrong, though," Linnea says, and Cassandra gives her a searching look as she pulls out a vial of oil for her sword and a filthy looking rag which she regards with some disgust. </p>
<p>Linnea grins and reaches into her pack to produce the rag Cullen gave her to blow her nose so daintily into. She's been hanging into it in case it comes in handy, given that the idea of returning it to him made her emphatically want to shrivel up. "Here. Use this."</p>
<p>Cassandra looks at it appraisingly. "This is tempered Nevarran cotton."</p>
<p>"Is it?"</p>
<p>"I wouldn't have thought it was of much use to you." Cassandra nods at her staff. "See how the weave holds those thin, metal strands? Too abrasive for wood, but excellent for steel."</p>
<p>"I did think it was rather rough on the nose," Linnea says thoughtfully, and then can't help but laugh at Cassandra's nonplussed expression. "Cullen lent it to me as a makeshift handkerchief. Please, give it back to him when you're done with it. I absolutely cannot face him after that mortifying encounter."</p>
<p>"...Ah."</p>
<p>"'Ah' indeed. By the way," Linnea says, trying to sound casual about it, "please don't try and enforce any sort of emotional bonding between us again, it was thoroughly awkward for everyone involved."</p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>"I know you told him to stay behind and try and - and - empathise, or something." Linnea's cheeks still heat up at the memory. "I handled it terribly, it was a complete disaster."</p>
<p>Cassandra sounds offended. "I did no such thing."</p>
<p>"Then it was Leliana."</p>
<p>"I don't think so." Cassandra starts to run the cloth slowly along her sword. "If we're talking about the day you, er -“</p>
<p>“Started blubbering like an infant?”</p>
<p>“- the day we returned from Redcliffe,” Cassandra continues delicately, “I had planned to stay but Cullen specifically told us all to leave. No one told him to stay behind."</p>
<p>"What?" Linnea's stomach drops abruptly. "Are you sure?"</p>
<p>"Quite sure."</p>
<p>Linnea sits in stunned silence for a moment to the repetitive sound of Cassandra cleaning her blade. "Shit," she says eventually, and then much, much louder: "Oh<em>, fuck me.</em>"</p>
<p>The Iron Bull stirs from where he's basking by the fire. "Uh, boss? There any particular reason you're yelling obscenities into the wilderness?"</p>
<p>"Cassandra," Linnea says, slow horror on her face. "I might need you to behead me."</p>
<p>Bull squints at them. "Who's beheading who?"</p>
<p>"No one's beheading anyone," Cassandra says, in equal measures both patient and exasperated."She's being dramatic."</p>
<p>"Someone, <em>please</em>, put me out of my misery. Truly, I deserve it." Linnea buries her face in her hands. "I'm a horrible person." She sees Cassandra shake her head at Bull from between her fingers. "Maybe I'll get lucky and Alexius' dangerous time magic will just suck me into the ether forever," she mumbles.</p>
<p>"Definitely not my idea of getting lucky, but okay.”</p>
<p>"Whatever you said," Cassandra says, pointedly ignoring the Iron Bull's contribution which will only delight him further, Linnea is sure, “I’m certain it wasn’t as bad as you think.”</p>
<p>“I’m certain it was.”</p>
<p>“Well -“</p>
<p>“I’m so awful at this,” Linnea says, dragging her hands through her hair frantically. “I’m just so awful at <em>all</em> of this. If Andraste really did shove me out the Fade then she must have been really low on options, because I can’t <em>possibly </em>have been her first choice.” She’s trying to be funny but it mustn’t come out right, because not even Bull chuckles.</p>
<p>Cassandra takes a moment to answer, long enough to turn her sword over on her lap, and long enough for Linnea to slump even more into herself. “Cullen is not an unreasonable man,” she says eventually, “I’m sure you can apologise for whatever it is you said -“</p>
<p>“It’s not about Cullen,” Linnea mutters, “Maker knows that bridge is already thoroughly burned - even if we pull this off tomorrow, there’s still plenty of time for it to turn out mages <em>aren’t</em> enough to seal the Breach and for him to have been right all along - but it isn’t even about that.”</p>
<p>There’s another pause. “We ask too much of you.”</p>
<p>“Hardly.”</p>
<p>“You could have left.” Cassandra gestures to her left hand, crackling unseen in her glove. “You chose to stay. That means something.”</p>
<p>“I’m not sure I’m doing a particularly good job at it.”</p>
<p>“It wasn’t safe to camp here mere weeks ago,” Cassandra continues stubbornly, “but now it is. That isn’t nothing, and we have you to thank for it.” The Iron Bull murmurs in agreement.</p>
<p>“Fine,” Linnea says irritably, “I accept that I’m perfectly good at solving problems you can set on fire, and maybe even a few you can’t. I’m happy to concede <em>that</em>, it’s just all the rest.”</p>
<p>“The rest?” Cassandra raises her eyebrows. “Wicked Grace? Sealing formal letters? These are hardly things worth worrying about.”</p>
<p>“Or nearly <em>drowning</em> in barely four feet of water. Or not knowing how to work with people without making them hate me.”</p>
<p>“Learning to swim is easily done,” Cassandra says, “and so is the rest.”</p>
<p>“Clearly not!” Linnea throws her bandaged hands out in front of her, ignoring the shooting pain. “I’m just sorry you all had the misfortune for this <em>thing</em> to end up stuck to me, and not someone who can actually navigate the real world with some level of success.”</p>
<p>“We ask too much of you,” Cassandra says again, “and you do not give yourself enough credit for all that you do.”</p>
<p>“Like I said, it hardly matters. What’s the use of being able to kill demons and seal rifts if I immediately drown?”</p>
<p>“You didn’t drown, though,” Bull says slowly, looking at her with that shrewd, one-eyed gaze.</p>
<p>“Because you pulled me out.”</p>
<p>“That’s what I’m here for,” he says, but there's no wink this time. “That’s what we’re all here for, isn’t it? Listen, boss, take it from me - you can learn all the noble shit easy enough if you want to. You can even learn their card games, and I’d pay good money to watch the Seeker teach you how to swim.” He grins. “But otherwise? You’ve got us. If you try to do everything, you can’t do everything well. Better just to be really good at one thing, and there sure is a market for killing demons right now. You just keep setting things on fire, boss. You're doing just fine. Leave the rest to everyone else.”</p>
<p>Linnea finds herself almost lost for words, especially when Cassandra nods with a smile. She curls her fingers around the green light in her palm and looks back at them both.</p>
<p>“That’s… thank you.” She smiles wryly. “Although I was <em>trying</em> to wallow. You’ve spoiled all the whining I had lined up.”</p>
<p>“How terrible of us,” Cassandra says, deadpan as ever. </p>
<p>“I was serious, though,” Bull says, “I will absolutely pay to watch the swimming lessons. What’s the going rate for spectators?”</p>
<p>Linnea throws a half eaten apple at his head, wallowing forgotten.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The problem with being a religious figure - besides entire nations hating you and being accused of heresy, blasphemy, and so on - is that some people are always going to leave a certain amount of distance between you and them. Linnea wouldn't be so cocky as to label herself <em>awe-inspiring</em>, but she certainly inspires awe in some people, nonetheless. The Herald of Andraste is a big title. Big enough that if you haven't seen her fall off her horse or stick her foot repeatedly in her mouth or nearly drown in the Hinterlands - then, well. Maybe it's too big for a lot of people to see the person behind it.</p>
<p>The problem with being a mage as <em>well</em> as a religious figure is that you never quite know where the awe ends and the fear begins. Or where the fear ends and the awe begins. Or if it's just an intimidating combination from start to finish.</p>
<p>Either way, Linnea is used to standing a little to the side. It's fine, really. She's happy just to watch the members of the Inquisition and the residents of Haven take this moment to celebrate, and she's happy knowing that she helped. That she didn't let them or their faith in her down, however misplaced it might be. </p>
<p>She's peacefully resigned to being a spectator of their celebration when Adan catches her eyes and grins as he holds out a hand, which is almost the biggest surprise of all. She's smiling and shaking her head politely when Flissa takes it a step further and actually takes her hand, tugging gently and laughing. Flissa is flushed and lovely, and this time Linnea absolutely can't find it in herself to refuse. She's always had a soft spot for Flissa, and to learn that she's not too afraid of the Herald of Andraste to pull her shyly into dancing is unexpectedly delightful. </p>
<p>She ends up laughing and breathless too, spinning dizzily around the fire and finding their giddiness contagious. They did it. They really did it. They closed the Breach.</p>
<p>She spots Cullen over Flissa's shoulder sitting on the low wall off to the left of the fire, and he looks right at her with a small, almost wan smile before Adan spins them both round and he's out of her line of sight. By the time she's facing him again he's no longer looking their way, and is instead talking to Rylen. Or at least, Rylen's talking to him, and Cullen is shaking his head with another small smile. Rylen grabs his shoulder with a grin, and then leaves Cullen alone once more. He cuts a rather pathetic figure.</p>
<p>Linnea is so caught up in watching him that Flissa crashes into her with a giggle, and she excuses herself graciously, leaving Flissa and Adan to spin each other around wildly. She has a feeling she was about to become a third wheel anyway, more's the pity.</p>
<p>Fuck it. The world nearly ended, and yet they're all still here. Is there a greater portent of a second chance to be a little better than before? She pushes through the crowd towards him, revellers bumping into her as she goes. He doesn't notice her until she's right beside him.</p>
<p>"I don't suppose I can tempt you?" she says, and Cullen looks up at her with polite confusion.</p>
<p>"Excuse me?"</p>
<p>"To dance," she says, though she doesn't reach for his hand. She isn't quite that daring.</p>
<p>"I'm not much of a dancer."</p>
<p>"And it's not much of a dance," she says, "just spinning and jumping around, really."</p>
<p>"Even so," he says, "I'm… it's kind of you to offer."</p>
<p>"Well, it was worth a try," she says, and takes a seat next to him as he chuckles self-consciously into his drink. He has at least <em>got </em>a drink, and it may even be alcoholic though there's steam rising off it and escaping into the cool air. He has no gloves on and his fingers are curled around the tankard gratefully, his whole body almost leaning into it. It's still full.</p>
<p>"I'm sorry to disappoint."</p>
<p>"Not at all," she lies, and they sit in silence for a moment as he takes a sip so miniscule it's hardly worth doing. She takes a good sideways look at him, taking in the dark red circles under his eyes, and the drawn look to his cheeks. "Forgive me, Commander, but when did you last sleep?"</p>
<p>"I can hardly recall," he says drolly, "it may have been before the Conclave."</p>
<p>"I'm honestly not sure if you're joking."</p>
<p>"Neither am I," he mutters, but straightens his back and meets her eyes. "I don't imagine you had a restful night either, knowing the task we had ahead of us today."</p>
<p>"I can't say that I did." Linnea watches Adan spinning Flissa round so fast she feels dizzy just seeing it. "It's certainly a relief to be on the other side of it, that's for sure. I know you had hoped the Templars would join us to finish this," she adds, doing her best not to sound antagonistic, though it's clearly not her forte. "I hope their absence didn't cause you to lose too much more sleep."</p>
<p>"Your judgement in recruiting the mages was clearly sound," Cullen says, doing a much better job than she ever did at sounding sincere. "I didn't doubt you for a moment."</p>
<p>"That's kind of you to say."</p>
<p>"I wasn't saying it to be kind," he says, and the words are blunt and graceless but the only ones she's heard all evening that warm her cheeks. She's embarrassed for herself. "You deserve to celebrate tonight."</p>
<p>"I'm trying to," she says, looking at him from the corner of her eye, "but I can't seem to find a willing dance partner."</p>
<p>"No?" Cullen doesn't rise to it, much to her disappointment. "I'm sure Adan would be more than amenable."</p>
<p>"Hmm," Linnea says, enjoying the disapproval in his tone. He's still such an easy mark, but that - that's not why she's here. She settles her hands nervously in her lap and takes a breath to steel herself. "Perhaps later."</p>
<p>Cullen looks down at his drink where he's still cradling it. "Don't feel you shouldn't enjoy yourself on my account. I'm not very good company at the best of times, let alone - well. It was kind of you to ask."</p>
<p>"I wasn't being kind," she says in a half decent impression of his own words, and he half smiles down at his tankard. </p>
<p>"You were hoping to see me disgrace myself, then."</p>
<p>"Well, yes," she says, "but also - I owe you an apology." </p>
<p>"For what?" Cullen looks up at her with a start, almost guilty. </p>
<p>"That day I made a fool of myself in the War Council," she says, trying for a rueful smile but probably just grimacing, "I - well, it's -" She sighs. "If you recall, I accused you of acting on someone else's instructions. That wasn't quite right, was it?"</p>
<p>Cullen's gaze is steady. It's an unusual feeling being the one out of the two of them that wants to squirm. "No," he says eventually, "but I'm not sure that requires an apology."</p>
<p>"I think it does." She folds her gloved hands in her lap for something to do with herself. She's no good at this. "In doing so, I not only mischaracterized your kind intentions, but implied that I neither valued nor wanted your friendship, and... that I didn't particularly like you."</p>
<p>Cullen is starting to look rapidly mortified. "Please, it really doesn't matter -"</p>
<p>"It matters to me," she says desperately, because it's the end of the world and they're all still standing, and it <em>does </em>matter. "As it happens, that isn't true," she continues, more to her feet than anything. "I - I <em>do</em> like you, actually, contrary to almost everything that seems to come out my thoughtless mouth. I would very much like to be friends, if that's still possible."</p>
<p>Cullen is silent for a short moment, though it feels horribly long to Linnea. "Careful," he says eventually, "that sounded dangerously close to a normal, healthy emotion."</p>
<p>She just gawps at him, more taken aback than she possibly anticipated. "I suppose I deserved that," she says, and finds herself starting to laugh. "Maker, I'm sorry. That was such a terrible thing to say. I really do know how to put my foot in it."</p>
<p>"You're not the only one," Cullen says wearily, and then he looks up and smiles at her. The genuine smile. The smile that - <em>fine</em>, the smile that charms her effortlessly, that makes his whole face live up to the handsome promise it merely hints at while he's frowning, the smile that warms her through and makes her cheeks flush, because she's hopeless, and she's not sure why she's so dedicated to pretending she's not. </p>
<p>"I really do hope we can be friends," she says softly. "Whatever the future holds for the Inquisition."</p>
<p>"I don't see why not," he says, still smiling, and then he turns to look at his drink again, presumably embarrassed by the sincerity of the conversation. She can't say she blames him. "There are still plenty of rifts out there, for a start."</p>
<p>"And there's the matter of the Order."</p>
<p>"There's that," he says, a hint of reluctance in his tone, and then he casts her a curious glance. "And when that is done?"</p>
<p>"When Cassandra and Leliana have reformed the entire Chantry and ensured peace across the continent, you mean?"</p>
<p>He chuckles. "I suppose so. What will you do when it's all over?"</p>
<p>"I hardly know," she says, a little startled at the question. "I suppose it's not likely that the Circles will be reformed quite as they were."</p>
<p>"You would want to go back if they were?"</p>
<p>"Not really." Linnea looks out over Haven, the dancing, the drinking, the pale sheen still left in the sky where the Breach was. "I couldn't go back now," she confesses, to the last person she ever thought she'd confess it to. "After everything, going back to a tower? To live and die in its walls? I'd stay and fight for the Inquisition a thousand times over before I'd be locked up again."</p>
<p>Cullen seems to be choosing his words with care. "Are those your only options?"</p>
<p>"Aren't they?" She shrugs. "The world needs to change considerably before mages truly have choices. We weren't all like Lady Vivienne."</p>
<p>"I think it already has," Cullen says, and she scours his expression for anything to be wary of, but finds nothing. "I think you've already changed it considerably."</p>
<p>"Changing hearts and minds takes much longer than that, Commander," she says, and he takes another miniscule sip of his drink. She can't read his reaction to her words that way, although she finds herself noticing the shaking of his hands, and the pink tips of his fingers. He really does look exhausted. "What would you do with the mages?"</p>
<p>His face falls. "You can't ask me that."</p>
<p>"I'm not trying to have an argument," she says, "I'm genuinely curious. Humour me?"</p>
<p>"I have no opinion."</p>
<p>"Nonsense. Surely you feel one way or another."</p>
<p>"I have no opinion," he repeats firmly, "and I don't wish to, either. The problem of mages was something I made my business for many years, and I don't think I did anything but make it worse, despite my best intentions. I've left that life, and accordingly, I leave these discussions for others to do better with."</p>
<p>"Well," Linnea says, thoroughly taken aback, "I'm surprised to hear you say that, Commander. You've always had such strong views -"</p>
<p>"On magic," he corrects her, "not on mages."</p>
<p>"Well," she says again, and he looks at her with a wary expression. "Forgive me, but I've always assumed you had a vested interest in upholding the Circle."</p>
<p>"Perhaps once," he mutters, taking another one of those tiny little sips. They're infuriating and amusing, and maybe even a little sad if she lets herself think about it too much. Cullen's so tightly wound it's almost painful to watch someone live their entire life that way. "But now, I -"</p>
<p>"Don't have an opinion," she finishes for him, biting back a grin. "So you've said."</p>
<p>Cullen has gone quite stiff. "I'm sorry to disappoint."</p>
<p>"I'm just teasing you," she says, trying to be gentle, but he's still looking rather rigid. "I've just been labouring under the assumption you thought I ought to be locked up, actually."</p>
<p>"I... apologise if I gave that impression."</p>
<p>"Goodness, what a lot of apologies for one conversation," she says teasingly, and this time he smiles, his shoulders even relaxing a degree or two. "Then let me add to the list: I apologise that I let our positions get to me."</p>
<p>"Our positions?"</p>
<p>"The Herald of Andraste, ex-Circle mage, and the Commander of the Inquisition, ex-Templar."</p>
<p>"Ah."</p>
<p>"We're a particularly high profile example of a dynamic playing out across the South, don't you think? It's disconcerting, feeling like… " She trails off with a shrug. </p>
<p>"A trial run?" he says dryly, and she laughs.</p>
<p>"Precisely. But I would like to be friends regardless of the political implications."</p>
<p>"As would I," Cullen says, and then, apparently embarrassed to have been caught saying not one but <em>several</em> sincere things within a ten minute span, clears his throat. "I'm keeping you from the celebrations." </p>
<p>"You're sure I can't persuade you to dance?" she says, certain that she can't but absurdly, absolutely<em> doggedly</em> determined to try anyway. It gets a half-smile, not the one she likes, but enough to encourage her.</p>
<p>"I'm quite sure, thank you. I do actually need to command the respect of our troops, if you recall."</p>
<p>"In that case," she says, and hops off the wall onto her feet, "I have another request before I rejoin the fray."</p>
<p>"Yes?"</p>
<p>"I know you're supposed to be advising me, but in this case, I think I'll break protocol: do try to get some sleep." If he were Cassandra or Josie or anyone else at all, she'd reach out and touch their shoulder, or make some kind of gentle contact. As it is, her arm moves upwards before falling back to her side awkwardly. </p>
<p>His mouth twitches. "I can try."</p>
<p>She backs away from him with a smile, and she could swear for a moment that Cullen looks beyond her to the party behind with a look that is almost, <em>almost </em>wistful. Tightly wound by habit but perhaps not entirely by nature, then. If only she knew quite how to get through all those layers of stiffness. It's truly embarrassing how much she wants to try.</p>
<p>"I'll get a dance from you one of these days," she calls after him, and he looks equally exasperated and sheepish. "Just you wait."</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. ii.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dennet tells her she’s worrying too much about the horses. It's hard to take his reassurances about their ability to withstand the cold to heart, especially when he's shivering and his breath comes out in clouds of white. Seeing that she isn’t convinced by his word alone, he pulls a corner of Pou’s coat up and has Linnea tuck her hand against her warm flank. They’re much hardier than they look, he tells her proudly. It'll take more than a few cold nights in the Frostbacks to finish his horses off, and that’s a promise.</p><p>She worries, even so. She worries that she's taken him away from his family to chase a hopeless cause across the mountains. She worries that they'll run out of food and it won’t matter that the horses are warm if their stomachs are empty. She worries that an Archdemon will emerge from behind one of the snowy peaks at any moment, and it won’t matter how well fed or warm anyone is.</p><p>At present, Linnea is neither well-fed nor warm, nor can she remember the last time she felt both at the same time - or even just one of them in any satisfying sense. What started as her evening ritual of fussing over Pou has turned quickly into an excuse just to pet her absently and avoid walking through the makeshift camp to the sound of awed whispers, which she’s feeling mightily sick of. Linnea tucks one hand under Pou’s coat and another in her mane and leans her head against the mare’s neck with a sigh, and because Pou is a gentle thing with a patient soul, she doesn’t object.</p><p>“I’m sorry I don’t have anything sweet for you,” Linnea tells her softly, “but the first sugar cube I see when this is all over has your name on it. The second one, too. In fact, I’ll make sure you get a never-ending supply -“</p><p>Footsteps crunch in the snow, and Linnea stops to peer in their direction, where she sees Cullen and two Inquisition soldiers following him, one holding a board and a quill. The other soldier who is empty-handed - it looks to be Rylen - beckons Dennet over from where he’s been tending to some of the horses.</p><p>“Horsemaster,” Rylen says, “how's the grain looking?”</p><p>“Twenty sacks now, Captain. We've gone through slightly more than I expected.”</p><p>The soldier with the board scribbles something down hurriedly, and Rylen nods. Linnea studies his face as best she can from her vantage point, hoping something will give her some indication of whether this is bad news or not. She doesn't glean much. </p><p>“So that’s two weeks worth, give or take?” </p><p>“About that, yes.”</p><p>“Excellent,” Rylen says, although it doesn’t sound excellent to Linnea at all, nor does Rylen sound particularly cheery. “Thank you, Master Dennet.”</p><p>“Is there anything you need?” Cullen asks Dennet as he gestures to the scribbling soldier. “Anything we can get you?”</p><p>“A hot bath would be nice,” Dennet says, and they all chuckle wearily. It’s an overused joke of late, but everyone is taking any excuse for a bit of levity about the situation they find themselves in. Linnea hasn’t managed to find her own sense of humour about it quite yet, feeling as responsible as she does for Haven’s destruction and their resulting flight.</p><p>“I’ll see what I can do,” Cullen says dryly, and then as his eyes take in the tethered horses and Dennet’s ramshackle feeding set-up, he sees Linnea and nods. She smiles, but doesn’t join them, still inclined to fuss over Pou rather than be drawn into official business. If he needs her, he knows where she is. Judging by the way his gaze lingers on her that may well be the case, she thinks wearily. She scratches Pou on the neck and does her best to look as though she isn’t particularly interested in eavesdropping, as a courtesy if not a particularly truthful one.</p><p>Rylen is counting on his fingers as he talks, the designated scribe nodding after each item. “Lysette’s group brought in a few goats, we still have most of the carrots, there’s plenty elfroot available for the wounded even with how much we’ve been getting through -“</p><p>“There’s the lyrium issue, ser,” the scribe chips in. She has a smudge of ink on her cheek and a somewhat stressed look that suggests to Linnea this isn’t her usual duty.</p><p>“Ah, yes.” Rylen leans over her board and frowns at what he sees. Perhaps her penmanship isn’t up to speed, either. “We were going to talk about dosages as well, Commander, if you have a moment."</p><p>“How’s our supply looking?”</p><p>“Could be better, could be worse. It’s not desperate yet.” Linnea scans Rylen's face again, but still sees nothing to further illuminate his words. She hadn't thought to enquire after their lyrium supplies at the last council meeting. The templars will need to take priority of course, as their usefulness depends entirely on it, but a depleted supply wouldn't benefit their mages either, if they encounter significant danger on their journey and their magical talents are in demand -</p><p>“That’s something,” Cullen says tersely, “what’s this about dosages?”</p><p>“Still have a few corporals on that strange double dose, ser. Apparently it was standard practice in Perendale, Cumberland - what was the other one, Karys?”</p><p>Karys is flipping through her notes. “Ansburg, ser.”</p><p>Rylen makes a disgruntled sound. “Really, Ansburg?” </p><p>“Kirkwall too,” Cullen says, “but I adjusted those a while ago. Remind me who’s on the highest tier?”</p><p>“Marsela, Nikalai, and Harris.”</p><p>Cullen pauses for a moment with a sigh. “Marsela and Nikalai can probably halve theirs now if they’re willing, I’ll speak to them. Harris may need to proceed more gradually, but we could still drop it slightly.”</p><p>“Want me to talk to him?”</p><p>“If you could.” Cullen rubs his forehead. “It’ll give us a little leeway, I suppose. That aside, the sooner the better. I don’t want them continuing on that dose beyond what is entirely necessary, regardless of supply issues.” He too frowns down at the board. “We should tally the elfroot even if there’s plenty, at least a reasonably accurate estimate. Karys?”</p><p>“Consider it done, ser. I’ll let Lady Montilyet know our latest figures,” Karys says, and salutes before scurrying off.</p><p>“I’ll speak to Threnn and distribute the draughts, then,” Rylen says, and Cullen nods. “Shall I bring your share, Commander?”</p><p>“Oh, I - no, thank you.”</p><p>“It’s no trouble.”</p><p>“It’s taken care of,” Cullen says, and there’s an edge to his voice that makes Linnea watch him closely. He gives Rylen a brief half-smile, which is more than Linnea expected, but doesn’t exactly ease her worries. “Have a word with Harris, if you would, I’ll speak to the others shortly. We’ll speak soon.”</p><p>“Will do, ser.”</p><p>As Rylen turns and heads back towards the camp, Cullen looks at her again, almost apologetic. She takes this to mean she is needed, and starts to extract herself from Pou’s warmth with a sigh.</p><p>"Leliana is looking for you," Cullen says, rather than bother with anything so unnecessary as a greeting. Despite everything, she has to bite her lip to stop from grinning. He moves forward to scratch Pou absently between the ears, which she accepts haughtily. Pou far prefers being scratched with bare fingers over gloves, which is why Linnea has forgone them, possibly rather stupidly in this weather. Cullen’s gloved offering is merely satisfactory.</p><p>"I thought she might be after me."</p><p>"Ah." He looks at her. "I… needn't mention I've seen you, if you'd prefer."</p><p>"Tempting as that is, I think I'd better go," she says, starting to shiver a little now she's not tucked into the warmth of Pou's side. She pats her neck fondly. "Be good for Dennet, Pou. Nearly there now, girl. Nearly there." She's talking nonsense for the most part, and to an animal that doesn't even understand what she's saying, let alone require comforting. Cullen just watches her, and she flushes a little, suddenly very aware of how sentimental she's being. </p><p>"Why an Orlesian name for your horse?" he asks, which catches her by surprise.</p><p>"My mother is Orlesian - at least she <em>was </em>- before she married into a Marcher family. All our coursers had Orlesian names."</p><p>"So you speak Orlesian?"</p><p>"I speak <em>some</em> Orlesian," she corrects him with a half-smile, "and not all that well."</p><p>"I see," he says, carefully polite. She raises an eyebrow, and he clears his throat. "Lady Nightingale was by the tents, as I recall."</p><p>She lets that peculiar exchange slide and falls into step with him as he heads back to the camp, folding her arms and tucking her hands close against her body. Once the sun sets, the temperatures drop rapidly. Cullen never complains about the cold, but even he is dressed for the occasion, heavy wool draped over his armor and an even larger than usual fur around his shoulders. Ordinarily, she'd warm her hands with a little magical assistance, but given Cullen's history - <em>their </em>history - she decides against it. Call it a newfound diplomacy.</p><p>"I heard you discussing the supplies," she says, "is the lyrium going to be a problem?"</p><p>His jaw clenches a little. It’s fascinating to her how close his emotions seem to be to the surface, and yet how little she can understand them sometimes. "It shouldn't be."</p><p>"What did Rylen mean about the double doses? I've never heard of that before. Does it increase Templar capabilities?"</p><p>Cullen is silent for a moment. "No," he says eventually, "there's no benefit."</p><p>"None?"</p><p>"Not in that way." He casts her a wary look and in the firelight now they've nearer the camp, the shadows under his eyes are thrown into sharp relief. "Some Circles preferred to keep their more junior templars on a higher dose, as it encourages a higher dependency."</p><p>She draws in a sharp breath. "Only the junior templars?"</p><p>"The potential side effects of an increased dose are not… desirable in commanding officers." </p><p>"You said they did this in Kirkwall?"</p><p>"It was standard practice, yes." Cullen's words are clipped; even with her unrivalled ability to completely misread him, she can tell he is not enjoying this conversation. "Not under me," he adds tersely.</p><p>"Did you?" she asks before she can stop herself. "Take the higher dose, that is."</p><p>"I came to Kirkwall as a Knight-Captain." He lifts the flap of the tent they've been using for their War Council meetings, and gestures for her to enter even as he refuses to meet her eyes. "So no."</p><p>"Is it hard to reduce it?" She ducks into the tent and is disappointed to find it no warmer than the outside. Cullen follows, but there's no sign of Leliana. The tent is empty but for a few crates in the middle as a makeshift table, strewn with maps.</p><p>"There's an adjustment period, and it depends on how long they've been taking the higher dose. I would never ask any of the Templars under my command to do so if it wasn't completely safe." He lets the tent opening fall closed behind him. "You needn't worry on that front."</p><p>"I didn't mean that at all," she says gently, "I only meant - well, the whole thing's rather barbaric, isn't it?"</p><p>Cullen does look at her then, his expression still closed off, but he looks perhaps a little less defensive. "The supplies will hold," he says, rather than answer her question, and shrugs off some of the furs he was wearing, brushing the fallen snow off them with more focus than the task really requires. It’s clear that he's just avoiding making further eye contact, so she takes the belaboured hint and doesn't press the matter. She's still shivering and thinking longingly of her gloves, but folds her arms tighter around her in the face of Cullen's apparent ease with the temperature.</p><p>"We have two weeks of grain for the horses?"</p><p>"Yes. As long as Solas' travel estimates hold, we have enough to make it to this fortress of his."</p><p>"It doesn't sound like enough," she says, trying not to let the worry creep into her voice. "It's not as though we'll arrive to a fully stocked pantry, is it?"</p><p>"Once we have a base of operations, getting supplied all becomes considerably easier. We'll be established soon enough, and everyone knows that until then we just need to push through. Everyone is pulling together, Herald."</p><p>"Well, as long as morale is holding," she mutters, and Cullen looks up in surprise.</p><p>"Morale is holding," he says quietly, "Andraste will guide us."</p><p>"Unluckily, I'm afraid all you have is me," Linnea says wearily, not at all prepared for the expression on Cullen's face. She hasn't really got used to seeing it on anyone's face, but especially on his - she finds the faith in his eyes overwhelming. She can't possibly live up to what she sees there. "Cullen," she says as steadily as she can manage, "I've never claimed to be divine. If Andraste truly, <em>truly</em> sent me - then she's doing a terrible job, to be frank, because I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm willing to listen but so far she's been deafeningly silent, and I fear I'll only disappoint you all when this finally becomes apparent."</p><p>"You haven't led us wrong yet."</p><p>"Look around," she tells him, a little sharply. "Really, take a good look. What about this situation seems part of a divine plan?"</p><p>To her confusion, he starts to smile. "Yes, because the Chant of Light is full of things going to plan."</p><p>"It's - well." She tries not to be amused but finds herself smiling too, mostly relieved that whatever faith he might have in her divine guidance still leaves room for humour. "You may have a point. Although I'm cold enough being burned at the stake is almost starting to sound appealing."</p><p>Cullen starts at that, and she notices she's shivering quite visibly now, which is entirely her own fault. He holds out the furs he just shrugged off. "Would you like -"</p><p>"Thank you," she says graciously, reminded vividly of another time he offered her something and determined to make less of a fool of herself. "I may have underestimated the Frostbacks somewhat," she adds with a sheepish smile, and fumbles for the cloak he's holding out with numb fingers. </p><p>"By the Maker," he says, presumably at her feeble attempts to grip the fur. "I hadn't realised you weren't wearing gloves -"</p><p>"Pou doesn't like them," she says, and she supposes the blank stare he gives her is fair enough, really. "I'll warm up in a moment, I'm sure."</p><p>Cullen watches her struggle with the cloak for another few painful seconds before taking it firmly from her fumbling hands and unfolding it with considerably more success. She can only watch with mortification - and, truthfully, a little thrill of something else that is even more mortifying - as he reaches around to drape it over her shoulders. </p><p>The thrill tapers into something far more pathetic as he wraps it across her carefully, muttering some sort of half apology and looking somewhat embarrassed himself. Linnea honestly can't recall the last moment she was this close to another person that didn't involve fighting or killing or cramming herself into a too small tent, or any other number of interactions without a scrap of tenderness. Was it holding Sara after Lydia died? The closest she's come is being helped down the mountainside after her seemingly miraculous escape from Haven, one arm around both Cullen and Cassandra's shoulders respectively as they took most of her weight. Her left hand was around Cullen's neck, and even though it crackled green and sharp, he grasped her wrist steadily and didn't shy away from it. A pointless detail to fixate on, it's not as if he could've recoiled when holding her upright. She's reading too much into nothing.</p><p>She's just pathetically starved for affectionate contact. It's pitiful. She more or less has a handle on her extremely ill-advised attraction to Cullen on its own - and she <em>would</em> rather freeze to death than admit that it exists outside the safe but embarrassed confines of her own thoughts - but combined with <em>this </em>feeling, this bone-deep loneliness, she’s rather less resilient. </p><p>It’s - it’s stupid. She <em>has</em> friends. She has more friends here on this mountain than she thought possible a few months ago. It’s probably her own fault that she can’t seem to let them into whatever part of herself it is that still feels so alone. She grew up mostly with people who’d either known her from her arrival in the Circle or who she’d known from their arrival, and the seven years before that never seemed really to exist once the doors closed behind you. She’s not exactly practiced at opening up to new people, and Maker knows how it’s only Cullen that seems able to come close. </p><p>His hands rest on her shoulders for a too brief, too long moment after he’s wrapped the cloak around her with whatever half-formed, awkward chivalry possessed him to provide her with that makeshift handkerchief all those weeks ago. She wouldn’t even have thought of labelling him too as starved for affectionate contact, but she senses something in his slightly embarrassed expression that mirrors her own perfectly. Cullen? Lonely? She would have scoffed once, but perhaps that’s cruel. For all his social stiffness and the dogged focus on his work, there’s still a person beneath the armor and the bluster. Linnea hasn’t heard of very many who truly have no need of friendship or affection. </p><p>"If I allowed you to freeze to death after escaping Haven, Cassandra would kill me," Cullen says, and she tries to laugh. This close, in the candlelight, he looks terrible. He drops his arms from her shoulders and starts to take a step back, but she reaches out with a cold hand to touch his face. In the strange privacy of this tent, just Cullen and Linnea and their loneliness, it feels natural to reach for him this way.</p><p>He flinches only slightly, his cheek burning beneath her fingers. She tilts his face towards her with a frown, and despite the sharp movement only a second before, he’s pliant under her fingers.</p><p>"I thought I told you to get some sleep," she says.</p><p>He swallows and makes an attempt at a smile. "I'm not sure exactly when you imagined I'd have had a chance."</p><p>"You're very warm." She presses her hand to his forehead. "Are you quite well?"</p><p>"Your hands are hardly an accurate measure of temperature at present."</p><p>"Even so." She notices the way he's starting to retreat back into himself under her scrutiny, but she also takes in the drawn look to his face, the slightly bloodshot eyes. Her newfound diplomacy dictates she shouldn't say anything, but she supposes they must have made it at least part way to genuine friendship after all, because her overriding emotion is concern. Perhaps her fingers aren't a good measure of heat, but she can feel how clammy his forehead is regardless. </p><p>"Forgive me, Cullen, but I have to ask - Captain Rylen offered to bring your lyrium draught and you declined. Are you skipping your scheduled doses to prolong our supplies?"</p><p>He goes immediately rigid beneath her hand. "I am not." He won't meet her eyes. For the first time since she's met him, she looks at him and truly sees the grip of the Chantry's leash.</p><p>It had always been easy to look at Templars clad in their armor and their self righteousness and know that the lyrium would eventually take its toll, their lives given willingly to the Order. She’s certainly seen it happen enough times, watched older Templars in her Circle discreetly relieved of their duties once they started down that slow decline. It was just part and parcel of seeing that flaming sword on their armor. It's harder to look at Cullen and see the same, but his years are presumably just as numbered. Barbaric really is the word, and something that’s almost anger, almost sadness tugs at her. The Chantry wastes everything it touches.</p><p>"Your intentions are good," she says as gently as she can, "but I'm sure you don't need me to remind you how dangerous it can be. There was a Templar at Ostwick who kept forgetting to take his, he fell into an awful fever and -"</p><p>"I'm well aware of the risks," Cullen says flatly, taking her wrist and lowering her hand, "but you needn't worry."</p><p>She withdraws her hand, suitably rebuked. "Cullen -"</p><p>"I assure you," he says, and this time he does meet her gaze though his eyes are hard, "I am not declining any lyrium put aside for my use."</p><p>Linnea nods slowly, pulling the cloak tighter around her. "Of course, Commander."</p><p>Cullen takes a step back and nods at her, suddenly business-like and brisk. "I'll let Leliana know you're here," he says, "and I’ll have someone bring your gloves."</p><p>He doesn't give her a chance to say anything further before he slips out the entrance, and she's left with nothing more tangible than an uneasiness and a strange sense of loss. It's not that she thinks he'd lie to her; she’s always privately thought Cullen incapable of lying. There are numerous times she would’ve preferred a lie but he refused to give it to her, pointedly honest to the bitter end.</p><p><em>But,</em> she thinks bleakly, <em>but </em>-</p><p>The Templars at Ostwick rarely wore full armor, it was always far too sedate for that to be necessary, but they wore a few ceremonial pieces that they kept well polished and shining. They'd smell mostly of that polish, fresh and metallic as you passed them in the hallways, but there was often that sharp scent of lyrium about them too, more familiar to those who'd passed their Harrowing.</p><p>She didn't catch anything like that on Cullen, even less than an arm's length away, and it leaves her with a sinking feeling that maybe, just maybe, he's more capable of lying to her than she thought.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"We'll need to clear this unsightly mess before we can get a proper idea of the space, of course," Vivienne says, frowning at the offending debris, "but this hall will look magnificent in no time, I'm quite certain. The fire isn't situated terribly well, but no matter, it'll welcome guests from the cold mountain air into the warmth rather nicely, don't you think?"</p><p>"Very nicely," Linnea says, though Vivienne hardly seems to require or even notice her contributions. She's been trailing dutifully after her for the last half hour, sweaty and exhausted from another long day of bringing their new fortress up to the Inquisition's standards, though Vivienne has somehow managed to assist only in a strictly non-physical capacity. No one quite dares ask Madame de Fer to get her hands dirty.</p><p>"Once we've cleared this space, we'll need to get some long tables on either side, I know just the carpenter for that sort of thing. I'll send for him at once."</p><p>"I love the stonework in here," Linnea says, expecting this to be ignored too. She pats the wall closest to her fondly; there's something about Skyhold that feels solid and comforting, especially after the precarious weeks that preceded their arrival. "Not that I know anything about stonework, really, but it's -"</p><p>"We'll need to get some hangings up, my dear," Vivienne says firmly, though not entirely without sympathy. "It's far too plain and rustic to leave uncovered when it’s where we’ll receive distinguished guests."</p><p>Ordinarily Linnea appreciates Vivienne’s insight into such things, but after such a long day, she feels unusually obstinate. "I rather like it how it is."</p><p>"It won't do at all," Vivienne continues, with that no-nonsense way she has of refusing to indulge Linnea’s moments of stubbornness. It’s when she’s like this that she really reminds her of Lydia. "Let’s see; I'll have the Circle standard raised on the north wall -"</p><p>Linnea shares a look with Dorian to her left, who raises an eyebrow. He's been following them both for the past few minutes with a variety of delighted expressions that suggests he's finding them to be an excellent source of entertainment. "Lady Vivienne," Linnea says, with all the polite diplomacy she can muster, "I'm not sure that's -"</p><p>"The Templar standard on the south, of course, we need to show our support for what remains of the Order."</p><p>Linnea shoots another panicked look at Dorian. "I really don't think -"</p><p>"Bull, be a dear and move some of this detritus," Vivienne continues seamlessly, gesturing dismissively at the debris on the flagstones. "We need to get an idea of the measurements. Does this fit two abreast, would you say?"</p><p>The Iron Bull certainly seems content enough to do as he's told, though he gives Linnea a knowing grin as he heaves some of the broken planks of wood over his shoulder. "Yes ma'am," he says cheerfully. </p><p>"And you," Vivienne says, pointing at Blackwall but not deigning to either look at or even name him, "those broken stools are an eyesore and only good for kindling. Please see that they're removed."</p><p>Linnea pinches the bridge of her nose and takes a deep breath. As Blackwall starts to move towards the stools obediently but with a murderous expression, Linnea catches him by the arm out of Vivienne's line of sight.</p><p>"You've done more than your share today already," she tells him quietly, "the stools can wait." She suspects he'll do it anyway, but at least he looks less like he's about to decapitate someone. She pats him on the arm again placatingly, and hurries after Vivienne.</p><p>"Now this is marvellous, darling," Vivienne calls from an open doorway, "just think of what we could do with this!"</p><p>Linnea peers over Vivienne's shoulder at the rotunda at the bottom of the tower with a sinking feeling. "What do you have in mind?"</p><p>"The sound carries so beautifully, it reminds me exactly of one of the rooms in Montsimmard Circle where we held our public lectures. We'll need to receive the Loyalists as soon as possible, of course, they need to see that your Inquisition extends its hand to all mages, not just the separatists in Redcliffe. We could start by appealing to their academic sensibilities.”</p><p>"I think," Linnea says carefully, hardly knowing where to start with any of that and feeling newly exhausted at the thought, “Solas has already begun to make this rotunda his own. Perhaps -"</p><p>“Yes, we’ll need to see to the walls,” Vivienne says thoughtfully, “perhaps a simple white? He can do his painting elsewhere, surely.”</p><p>Linnea looks at Dorian again, this time with a real hint of desperation. He seems to finally take pity on her, despite the free entertainment.</p><p>“Even without our elven friend’s claim to the room,” he says with amusement, “you may wish to reconsider, Lady Vivienne, unless you think your guests would appreciate the occasional excrement landing on their head, of course.”</p><p>“I beg your pardon?”</p><p>“Nightingale's ravens have taken up residence in the top of the tower.” Dorian points upwards with a smirk. “They’re not yet so well trained that they shit on command. Or perhaps they are, and this <em>is</em> her command. I hardly dare ask.”</p><p>“I see,” Vivienne says slowly with some disgust, “in which case, you make a good point.”</p><p>Linnea’s shoulders sag in relief as Dorian just grins. “Did you hear that?” he says in a mock-whisper. “The Lady of Iron says I make a <em>good point</em>. Has that happened before?”</p><p>“Wonders never cease,” Vivienne says dryly, and leaves the doorway to once again eye the main hall critically. “Perhaps that balcony would suffice as a place to receive guests. The view is quite severe, but it’s certainly striking enough.” She gestures at the wall, where a few things have been hastily hung. “I suppose you insist on keeping that gaudy Tevinter relic?”</p><p>“Is she referring to me, or the mosaic?” Dorian says, earning another unimpressed look from Vivienne.</p><p>"I do insist," Linnea says, "to both, as it happens."</p><p>“I suppose they do have <em>some</em> merits.”</p><p>"How warm and fuzzy this has become," Dorian says cheerfully, "and on that note - while I'm feeling appreciated - I'm afraid I need to borrow our illustrious leader from you, Madame, if you can spare her?"</p><p>Vivienne waves them away with an airy gesture, spotting Bull making his way back to her empty handed, and no doubt planning his next task already. Linnea can't help the sigh that escapes as Dorian leads her across the hall and towards another doorway.</p><p>"I think you've just saved me from another discussion about chaise longues I'm incapable of contributing to," she tells him with fervent relief. "I never knew I was so horribly ignorant about upholstery. Is something the matter?"</p><p>"Not at all," Dorian says, leading her down a stone staircase with close walls. It's dark except for the flame he effortlessly summons in his palm. "I merely thought you might enjoy a break from expanding your furniture horizons."</p><p>"So it <em>was</em> a rescue mission," Linnea says, and he grins.</p><p>"Was I wrong to intervene?"</p><p>"Absolutely not," she mutters, and Dorian laughs as he lights a sconce on the wall. "Where are we going?"</p><p>"Through this door, hopefully." He pushes it but it doesn't budge. "Just a little aimless exploration." He leans against the door and pushes from his shoulder this time, but the door still stays stubbornly shut. He tries again, harder, and swears under his breath in his usual expressive Tevene when it still refuses to open.</p><p>"At least put your back into it."</p><p>"I am!"</p><p>"Not terribly impressive for someone who has their clothes tailored specifically to give a tantalising glimpse of their muscles. Or are those shoulders purely for show?"</p><p>Dorian gives her an affronted look. "These are the refined arms of a pampered altus, thank you very much. They're not for anything as gauche as breaking down doors, they’re for reclining gracefully while someone feeds me grapes, or for grasping my staff attractively."</p><p>"I sincerely hope that isn't a euphemism," Linnea tells him, "because that's far more information than I ever wanted. Here, let me -"</p><p>She slams her shoulder into the door with what turns out to be completely unwarranted confidence, succeeding only in adding to her collection of aches and pains.</p><p>"How many skilled and dangerous mages does it take to open a rusty old door?" Dorian quips, Linnea holding her shoulder and wincing. "I had hoped not to resort to burning it down."</p><p>They succeed eventually with the two of them slamming into it at the same time; there's a loud snap and they tumble through with the momentum of their movement, tripping over the broken planks on the other side that had been holding it shut. She grabs Dorian's arm to steady herself, lest she find herself sprawled on the flagstones.</p><p>"Ah, you see - you <em>do</em> appreciate my refined muscles," he says smugly, holding his arm out in a mock courtly fashion, as if offering her a dance. She pulls herself up and then swats him away with a grin. "Maker's breath, this place really is enormous," he adds, and with another careless gesture the sconces on the wall behind him flicker with magical fire. "Pick a door? Inquisitor's choice."</p><p>"How generous of you." Linnea walks between the stone pillars stretching from floor to ceiling with her fingers brushing against each one. She really doesn't know anything at all about stonework, but Skyhold feels old and full of history and promise. It isn't anything tangible as much as it is a feeling. "Hopefully we have better luck opening this one."</p><p>This door, however, opens smoothly if not silently, the long creak as it swings open wonderfully atmospheric. What lies behind it is just as appropriate, the exact kind of room one expects to find behind a blocked door in the cellar of a mysterious mountain fortress. Linnea's romantic sensibilities are thrilled.</p><p>"A private library?" Dorian says with interest, peering over her shoulder. "Now this is quite a find."</p><p>"We must be the first people here in years," Linnea says, shuddering delicately as she takes a step inside and a dusty cobweb clings to her arm. "The spiders have certainly been busy."</p><p>"No matter," Dorian says, and touches a finger to a cobweb stretching across the entrance. Tightly controlled sparks scurry along its length, the cobweb turning to black ash and falling away to silent dust. He tilts his head to one side and gives her an encouraging look, but says nothing. Dorian is full of these little magical solutions, telling of a lifetime of using his magic quite freely and without fear. The southern Chantry wouldn't consider this magic to be ‘serving man’, presumably, and frivolous use of fire like this would've definitely earned Linnea a reprimand in the Circle.</p><p>She reaches out to touch her own strand of cobwebs, the sparks burning brighter than Dorian's and requiring a concerted effort to cut them off before they reach the shelves.</p><p>"Just the tiniest amount," Dorian says absently, already moving towards the rest of the shelves. "You can start tapering it off halfway along and let the momentum take care of the rest."</p><p>He never makes it feel like a lesson, and he wouldn't dream of doing this sort of thing in front of Vivienne, or even Solas. Of all the tutoring she receives these days, his is by far the most tactful, and she's grateful for that. It’s also a subject she excels in, so she only needs a gentle nudge.</p><p>She reaches for another cobweb, controlling the sparks as tightly as he had this time, satisfying her own perfectionist streak. Lydia would approve of her method, if not the exercise itself.</p><p>"Spot anything good?"</p><p>"I think so," Dorian says, cobwebs falling away from the shelves in copious clouds of ashes as he impatiently clears the spines. "Enough to appeal to <em>my</em> academic sensibilities, anyway. I never was one for lectures, I find that the attendees ask no end of stupid questions, which always spoils the whole experience."</p><p>Linnea laughs quietly, drawing closer to the desk and pinching the wicks of each candle into small flames. She brushes the chair clean and sinks into it with a sigh, hardly caring that its upholstery is ancient and stiff and sends up a small cloud of dust as she sits. "Me neither. I have a horrible feeling Vivienne will be recruiting me as a speaker."</p><p>"You may be right," Dorian says, scanning the next shelf with a finger. "I can't imagine saying no to her, either. She reminds me of a dear friend in that way, but although they share their spines of steel, I think Mae rather outshines her in indulging me. I’ve ducked out of a lot of her academic gatherings with her blessing."</p><p>"Her spine's certainly made of something," Linnea mutters, and then groans at last, feeling free to let her irritation loose now it's just Dorian and some dusty books to witness it. "I'll have to get Josie to stop her putting up Circle standards, she's so much better at talking her round than I am. You too, actually. You always seem to know what to say."</p><p>"I've spent my whole life dealing with headstrong mages," Dorian says, and then he turns from the shelves to look over her shoulder at her. "Be careful with that one. I know her type."</p><p>Linnea looks at him reproachfully. "She isn't our enemy, Dorian."</p><p>"Of course not." He pulls a book from the shelf and brushes the dust carefully from the binding. "Lady Vivienne will give our cause her full dedication, and undoubtedly go above and beyond even that. She's a formidable ally, and very good company. I'd even say she's a generous, caring friend, although you'd know more about that than I."</p><p>Linnea raises her eyebrows. "But…?"</p><p>"<em>But</em> -" Dorian places the book on the desk and mirrors her expression. "<em>But</em> she'll always have her own agenda, remember that."</p><p>"Doesn't everyone?"</p><p>"It won't stop at banners, you know that," he says, still looking at her even as he opens the cover painstakingly, the edges of the pages gummy with dirt and age. "I'm not itching to convert my southern brethren to Imperial standards quite yet, but I don't think seeing the Circles reformed to their former glory is quite what you want, is it?"</p><p>Linnea sighs again, almost a groan, and slides down in the chair a little. "I - no. It isn’t."</p><p>"Madame de Fer has taken every opportunity available to her and used it to her advantage." Dorian gives her a significant look. "Don't allow her any opportunities you wouldn't want her to capitalise on, because mark my words, she will. That’s just the Game, if I understand correctly. She’s a woman born of circumstance."</p><p>"It's hard to believe she started where I did." Linnea rubs a weary hand across her face. "It's scarily impressive. Everything I’ve achieved has been completely by accident, or with divine providence, depending on who you ask. Vivienne engineered everything she’s achieved entirely by herself."</p><p>"She'd fit in the Imperium a lot better than she likes to pretend." Dorian sighs wistfully. "I'd love to see that. You know, I think she'd have the whole country whipped into shape within the year."</p><p>"Then what are we waiting for? Let's send her at once." </p><p>Dorian chuckles at that, peeling the first page of the book gingerly apart as he does. "If anyone can convince her, it's you. You can’t ascribe everything you’ve done to sheer luck, you know. You deserve more credit than that."</p><p>"Hardly. I'm barely holding together the delicate balance of personalities in this organisation as it is without trying to do anything as ambitious as influence one of them."</p><p>"Ah, yes," Dorian says delicately, "I saw you were keeping the peace with Blackwall."</p><p>"I’m not sure I’m keeping the peace. I stopped an argument, but there’ll be more.” Linnea sighs again. “Stopped Sera chucking eggs at her head this morning, as well.”</p><p>“I’m sure Vivienne is more than capable of defending herself from Sera’s tomfoolery.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m sure,” Linnea says, “but I can’t have her pulp one of my best archers. Not to mention that Blackwall might actually murder her if I allowed that to happen.”</p><p>Dorian turns another page with an amused laugh. “You see? You’re keeping the peace.”</p><p>“I’m fighting fires.” She raises her eyebrows. “Historically, I’m far better at starting them.”</p><p>“You’re doing a marvellous job.”</p><p>“Which is why you felt the need to offer advice, no doubt.”</p><p>“Dear me, you’re prickly today,” Dorian says, but without any real offence. “I’m sorry if I gave the impression I was calling your competence into question.”</p><p>Linnea groans, dragging her hands down her face. “Not at all, I’m sorry. I’m calling my own competence into question by being so needlessly prickly.”</p><p>Dorian grins. “A day spent confiscating eggs from Sera would do that to the best of us.”</p><p>“I’m not even sure where she’s getting them from,” Linnea says, grudgingly impressed. “She wanted to drop one from a height on Solas too, and don’t think <em>you’ve</em> escaped her hit list, either.”</p><p>Now, Dorian is affronted. “What did I ever do to her?”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know that you’ve <em>done</em> anything. I think she’d just enjoy the chaos of it.” Linnea gives him a mischievous look. “I can see the appeal. I’m almost tempted to let her put her devious plans into action.”</p><p>“Then I am even more grateful for your deliberate and measured skills in diplomacy,” Dorian says, brushing a non-existent speck of dirt from his shoulder, which Linnea snorts at. </p><p>“Even I have my limits, so watch your back. Anyway,” she says, weariness setting in again, “at least Solas is keeping his rotunda, as long as he doesn’t object to bird shit.”</p><p>“He has a charm set up, actually,” Dorian says, “quite an ingenious thing, I imagine it would stop projectile eggs as well, so that’s one less thing to worry about. I didn’t think this was worth mentioning to Vivienne, of course.”</p><p>“Much appreciated. I’ll still have to stop Sera bothering the ravens, though, I’ve no idea what her game is but Leliana won’t approve.” She’s just thinking out loud now, but Dorian is watching with an encouraging attentiveness, so she finds herself continuing. “Maker’s breath, I hope it isn’t anything to do with the eggs. I’ll speak to Leliana, I need to catch Josephine anyway about the banners - the <em>Order’s </em>standard on the other wall, can you imagine - I suppose at least that’ll be an easier conversation now that Cullen’s avoiding me -“</p><p>“Avoiding you? Whatever for?”</p><p>“I haven’t the foggiest, he just seems to scurry off in the opposite direction whenever we aren’t required to be in the same room, recently. I assume I’m not the only one.”</p><p>“On the contrary” Dorian says, turning some of his attention back to the book in front of him. He’s prying open a page that is particularly stuck to its neighbour. “I’ve seen plenty of him. We’ve been playing chess, if you can believe it.”</p><p>“Really?” For one brief but revealing moment, Linnea is struck with an absurd jealousy. It’s horrifying. It must even show on her face at least a little, because Dorian looks at her with amused curiosity. She hides that about as well as she hides the grudging irritation in her next words, which is to say, quite poorly. “Well, it’s just me then. Fantastic. I’ve somehow managed to offend his Templar sensibilities again.”</p><p>“Oh, I doubt it. I was telling him all about the Order in my homeland yesterday, he seemed much more curious than offended. They don’t generally take lyrium in the Imperium, you know.”</p><p>“Then how do they counter magic?”</p><p>“They don’t,” Dorian says with a raised eyebrow. “It might make your southern Templars more dangerous, but at least they're somewhat easier on the nose.”</p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>“Don’t you like the smell of lyrium?” Dorian turns another page and gestures at the tome. “I like it almost as much as the scent of a musty old book, whatever <em>that</em> says about my tastes. It’s something about how they treat the lyrium before they take their draughts, you can smell it so much more clearly on a Templar than you would on a mage who’s taken a potion. Not that I’ve gone around sniffing our Templars, I hasten to add, they’re already suspicious enough of me without starting<em> that</em>, but I have caught a rather pleasant whiff or two.”</p><p>“It’s an awful smell! It’s so sharp.” Linnea wrinkles her nose. “I can’t imagine finding it <em>pleasant</em>.”</p><p>“Then you must cringe away from our dear Commander in disgust,” Dorian says, a hint of mischief in his voice. “Could that be why he’s avoiding you?”</p><p>“I can be professional,” she says haughtily, although - evidently, no she <em>can’t </em>- and Dorian bites back a grin. </p><p>“Indeed,” he says, but as much as Dorian enjoys poking her just to watch her react, he isn’t inclined to prolonged nosiness. “I joke, of course. I’m quite sure you haven’t offended him. He’s just a rather complicated and contrary man.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, are we still talking about Cullen, or did you just start describing yourself?”</p><p>“My favourite subject,” Dorian says brightly, turning another page and then spinning the book around to face her with a triumphant look. “Finally! Now, take a look at this and let’s have your thoughts, before Lady Vivienne reclaims you for decoration purposes -"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The request for a lock of the Herald’s hair comes directly from the Lady Trevelyan herself. Linnea stares down at the elaborate signature the same way she’d hold her hand above a candle as a child, seeing how long she could leave it before it started to hurt. That backfired rather spectacularly in the end, given her magical aptitude for flames, and likewise, she seems immune to this signature, too. If it burns, she doesn’t feel it. She’s had years of practice.</p><p>When was the last time she saw her mother? Five years ago? Seven? It must have been at Emile’s wedding, so she wasn’t too long out her Harrowing but had started to make a name for herself as a promising hopeful for their next Enchanter. She’d been allowed to attend the celebration with only Lydia as her chaperone, with the Trevelyan’s long history of providing their own personal Templar honour guard making magical security almost a non-issue. </p><p>Her brothers had been promised to the Order young, of course, and Linnea was tasked with continuing the Trevelyan line while they served the Maker. She’d soon put a stop to all that, and Robin had to step up to the task once she was whisked away to the Circle. Alaric never made it to taking his draught either, although that definitely wasn’t part of their parents' plan. She couldn’t get much more information out of him even a couple of glasses of wine into the evening, but from what she could gather, Linnea was no longer the most disappointing child in her mother’s eyes. </p><p>She’s fond of her brothers, however much more they feel like strangers than siblings. Especially given everything that’s happened, she’s glad it’s ended up that way. They were always pleasant enough to her when their paths crossed for the brief occasions when she ventured outside the Circle walls. They say mages hold no titles, but even in a world ostensibly without nobility, a family name still counts for something. Mages who never had a title to lose certainly never got the chance to attend a wedding and make polite conversation with their estranged siblings. Alaric even visited her sometimes, and she thinks he would have even if he <em>hadn’t</em> been secretly sleeping with the Knight-Captain. Linnea has the distinct feeling this sort of indiscretion is probably why he’s out of her parents’ good graces, but it’s also why he’s her favourite out of all of them. </p><p>By the time of Emile’s wedding, Robin had already married into a rather more wealthy family from Starkhaven, just enough above what might be expected of the Trevelyan heir that her mother undoubtedly had a hand in it, but his wife seemed so kind and well-suited to him that he must have had some say in the matter. They had two little daughters then, both over-enthusiastic flower girls, and Linnea was immediately besotted with her adorable nieces, delighted to have finally met them.</p><p>It became clear quite quickly that they were afraid of her, and despite Robin’s reassurances she’s fairly sure they learned it from him. She let it get to her a bit more than she would now; she proceeded to follow Alaric’s rebellious example and get good and drunk. Lydia didn’t even intervene, although it was clear she felt that bad decisions were being made.</p><p>She wasn’t wrong. Lady Trevelyan was still nursing a very healthy irritation about a wedding several years prior where Alaric delighted in introducing his absent younger sister to wine for the first time. Linnea was oddly determined to repeat her previous disgrace, and her mother wouldn’t even speak to her.</p><p>So it’s no wonder, really, that she doesn’t feel any of the usual things reading this letter. It’s just the signature of a stranger who doesn't approve of her, after all.</p><p>“We should send it in a locket,” Josephine says, “as is the fashion in Orlais.”</p><p>“We should?” Cullen sounds so baffled that Linnea looks up at him. “Won’t that set a rather alarming precedent? If all your relatives are to start requesting locks of hair -”</p><p>“The Trevelyans are certainly prolific,” Linnea agrees, “I’d be bald, I imagine.”</p><p>“Yes, but this is her <em>mother</em>, Cullen.”</p><p>“He’s right, probably,” Linnea says mildly, “she’s not particularly fond of me. She just wants to be the first to have a piece of the living relic, I should think.”</p><p>“I’m sure that’s not -” Josephine starts, before casting Linnea a sympathetic look. Josie knows nobles. She’s just trying to be kind, and a lie would be useless at this point. “I don’t propose we start accommodating all these requests, but I don’t think it would be prudent to decline this.”</p><p>Cullen is still looking at her, frowning slightly. She gets the horrible feeling that he’s pitying her, sometimes. “If you’d rather not, I don’t see any reason we need to humour this.”</p><p>“It’s just hair,” Leliana says, placatingly. The look she gives Linnea isn’t unsympathetic, but it’s clear where she stands on this. “It grows.”</p><p>“These things have power,” Cullen mutters, unusually enigmatic for him, but Linnea understands him immediately.</p><p>“Do you think it could work?” she asks. “In lieu of blood?”</p><p>“Perhaps.”</p><p>“Like a phylactery?” Leliana looks only vaguely interested, and waves it away. “I hardly think you need worry about that, Inquisitor. Your location isn’t exactly a secret.”</p><p>“I suppose not,” Linnea says, and she tucks the letter in her pocket with a sigh. “I’ll see to it later, then.”</p><p>Cullen clearly wants to object, but he sets his jaw and they don’t speak of it further.</p><p>Later, she cuts a lock from the side of her head and sets it on the table in her quarters. She thinks of it being tucked inside a locket, worn proudly around her mother’s neck. She wished she’d known when she was younger that it would take nothing less than actually <em>becoming a religious figure</em> to get her mother’s approval; she would’ve felt far less pressure to try and earn it in other, more futile, ways.</p><p>The thought suddenly irritates her more than it ever has.</p><p>She tucks the hair instead inside her desk drawer, and burns the letter slowly between her fingers with a belligerent pettiness she hardly knew she had in her.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Leliana’s instructions had been quite specific, if enigmatic. Linnea makes her way promptly to Josephine’s office as instructed, barely an hour after returning to Skyhold. The ends of her hair are still wet and her skin is slightly pink from being hurriedly scrubbed, but at least she’s halfway presentable and no longer looking like she’s spent the past three weeks covered mostly in an alarming combination of sand and viscera, which was all Leliana had requested. </p><p>She pushes Josie’s door open cautiously, hearing hushed conversation behind it. Josephine and Leliana are fussing over something by the fireplace, the room in quite a different arrangement to its usual configuration. There’s a delicate tea table in front of the fireplace, complete with cutlery and a lace tablecloth, and four chairs arranged around it. Brigitte, one of Josie’s assistants, is polishing the silverware with a cloth, and smiles at Linnea as she peers round the door curiously.</p><p>Linnea shuts the door behind her with a click, and Josie and Leliana turn to her with delighted expressions. “Er… what’s all this for?”</p><p>Leliana doesn’t answer her question. “You have the package?”</p><p>“Yes, it’s right here - not the sort of thing I expected to receive an urgent raven asking for, but -“</p><p>“Excellent,” Leliana says with satisfaction, and beckons her over to the table. Still rather nonplussed, Linnea joins them and places the delicate white box on the lace table covering with care. It’s fastened prettily with a pale blue bow.</p><p>Josie sighs. “She does the most wonderful work. Shall we?”</p><p>“Are we expecting guests?” Linnea tries again, but once Leliana has loosened the ribbon, she and Josephine are both too enraptured by the contents of the box to pay much attention to her. Leliana starts to carefully unwrap the beautiful cakes and pastries within - Linnea had watched the patisserie worker wrap them all up with similar awe - and starts to place them on the tiered set of plates in the middle of the table.</p><p>“She’s outdone herself,” Josephine says delightedly, “Brigitte, if you could?” Her assistant stops her polishing and stands upright.</p><p>“Of course, Lady Ambassador.”</p><p>“Please do stress the urgency of it,” Josie says, and she and Brigitte exchange conspiratorial looks.</p><p>“Right away.”</p><p>“Wonderful,” Josie says, and then to Linnea’s confusion, Brigitte strides purposefully out of Josephine’s office. “Please, Inquisitor, take a seat.” Linnea obeys automatically, though she hardly knows why. Leliana and Josephine take the seats to her left, leaving one empty on her right hand side. She stares at it blankly.</p><p>“I think I’ve missed something here,” she says apologetically, “if we’re expecting a dignitary, perhaps you’d be so good as to remind me -“</p><p>“The tablecloth is too much,” Josie says fretfully, “I did promise.”</p><p>“The tablecloth is lovely, Josie. It sets the scene beautifully.”</p><p>“It isn’t too fussy?”</p><p>“I still think we should have hung some streamers up over the fireplace,” Leliana says, reaching over to spin one of the tiered plates ever so slightly, as if unsatisfied with the angle of presentation. Linnea rather thinks it’s a mouthwatering spread from all directions. “Or opened a bottle of wine -“</p><p>“We said we wouldn’t make a fuss, Leliana.”</p><p>“Wine isn’t a fuss.”</p><p>“You know that I agree whole-heartedly, but from his point of view -“</p><p>Linnea is in a comprehensive state of bewilderment when the door to Josephine’s office opens hurriedly, and a concerned looking Cullen bursts in, followed by Brigitte. He stops dead in his tracks at the scene in front of him. Brigitte winks at Josie, then gently tugs the set of missives that Cullen is holding from his grasp and leaves the room with them, closing the door firmly behind her.</p><p>“Commander,” Josephine says graciously, “please do take a seat.”</p><p>“This isn’t an emergency,” he says slowly, looking mutinous. It's the first time Linnea has seen him in Skyhold without full armor; he's taking the defence of their new fortress very gravely indeed. Perhaps he's finally satisfied with the efficacy of his devised patrol routes. </p><p>“No,” Leliana agrees, with nothing short of delight in both her expression and her voice. “But look, Josie, we’ve even managed to get him here without his armor. This has gone ever better than we planned.”</p><p>“You promised,” Cullen says, spine rigid, “that you wouldn’t make a fuss -“</p><p>“I don’t see a fuss,” Leliana continues smoothly, gesturing at the spread of confectionery. “I just see four friends having a well deserved break, sharing some delicious food.”</p><p>“The Inquisitor was kind enough to bring these all the way from Orlais,” Josephine adds, and although she clearly shares Leliana’s delight, there’s an undercurrent of anxiety to the way she's wringing her hands under the table.</p><p>Cullen glares directly at Linnea then, looking betrayed in a way that shouldn’t be funny, but absolutely is. “You’re in on this too, then.”</p><p>“I, er -“ Linnea looks blankly from Cullen to a grinning Leliana. “I am, apparently, although - sorry, but what <em>is</em> this, exactly?”</p><p>“Four friends sharing some delicious food,” Leliana repeats mischievously, and Cullen sighs at the ceiling. “If it just so <em>happens</em> to fall on one of these four friends’ birthdays, then -“ Josephine shoots Leliana a warning look, though she’s clearly fighting a smile.</p><p>“Oh!” Linnea says, and before she can stop herself, a look of thorough delight must cross her face too, judging by Cullen’s expression. “It’s your birthday?”</p><p>“You promised,” he says again, but even he must recognise how unreasonably sullen he sounds. He sighs once more; the clear sound of a defeated man reluctantly accepting his fate. Linnea grins widely into her hand. </p><p>“Come now, Commander,” Leliana says, “won’t you join us? I think Josie ordered some of your favourites.”</p><p>Cullen is still hovering by the doorway, so Linnea pats the seat beside her with a quirk of her eyebrows, enjoying his unimpressed expression at her obvious glee. “I’m very busy,” he says weakly, “I have - much that I need to -“</p><p>Josephine adopts a gentler, more tactful approach than either Linnea or Leliana. “It’s the Sablé Velun that you’re partial to, is it not? This particular patisserie makes the most wonderful biscuits, the salted butter from Val Firmin is renowned throughout Orlais.”</p><p>“That’s very kind of you,” Cullen says stiffly, “but you really shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”</p><p>“The Inquisition can wait for half an hour,” Leliana adds, and finally with a reluctant politeness that delights Linnea more than she thought possible, he takes his seat at the table next to her.</p><p>“Happy birthday,” she says sweetly, and enjoys the variety of expressions that flicker across his face. After cycling through resignation and its many cousins, he settles eventually on an amused sheepishness. She can't say why she likes it so much, but she does.</p><p>"Thank you," he mutters, and then seems to take in her damp hair. "I wasn't aware you'd returned. I trust your business in the Western Approach -"</p><p>"No," Josephine says firmly, pointing a small silver fork in his direction in the most threatening gesture Linnea has ever seen her make. "No business, Commander, I must insist. Please, have a biscuit." There's no mistaking it for an order, despite Josephine's impeccable politeness.</p><p>Linnea watches as Cullen, Commander of the Inquisition's forces, reaches for a biscuit with a hurried obedience, and it takes everything she has not to laugh out loud. The urge only becomes stronger when a slightly awkward silence follows, and all of them seem to realise at the same moment they're not actually sure <em>how</em> to proceed without talking business. </p><p>"So," Linnea says, certain if she doesn't start talking soon she'll just start laughing, "can I ask which birthday it is that we're celebr - I mean," she amends, catching Leliana's eye, "coincidentally eating cake on the same day as?"</p><p>Cullen looks wearily to the ceiling once more, but if he's hoping for Andraste to swoop down and rescue him from the question he's sorely disappointed, however much pity his situation might inspire in her. Her Herald, meanwhile, raises an eyebrow and offers no such pity.</p><p>"I'm, ah - I'm turning thirty," he says eventually. </p><p>"Thirty! A milestone."</p><p>"A number," he says firmly, stubborn to the last. He takes a slightly desperate bite of his biscuit.</p><p>Linnea, cake forgotten, does a few rapid calculations in her head. "You first went to Kirkwall ten years ago?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"You were only twenty when you made Knight-Captain, then?"</p><p>"Yes," Cullen says again, no more forthcoming for the implied compliment. If anything, he looks even more reluctant than before. "It wasn't long after the Blight," he adds, as if that has some bearing on it. "That is, I mean -"</p><p>"It must have been over ten years since we first met, then," Leliana says, and Cullen looks relieved to have her take the conversational lead. Linnea suspects this is deeply premature given the continuing mischievous glimmer in their spymaster's eyes, and is proven correct when Leliana adds: "Your hair was ever so curly, Commander. Whatever happened?"</p><p>Cullen ignores that question with as much dignity as one can really summon while eating a biscuit.</p><p>"I had no idea you've known each other that long," Linnea says, feeling suddenly like a newcomer in a way she hasn't since the early days in Haven. There’s that strange little tug of loneliness that surfaces every now and then, when her isolated past makes her self conscious. She wishes she didn’t sound so wistful. She’s not sure there’s anyone she was close to from Ostwick for that long who’s still alive. </p><p>"Not all that well until Cassandra recruited him to our cause, but yes, we met during the Blight." Leliana is eating her pastry delicately with a fork, somehow making the whole affair far neater than should be possible. Cullen doesn't add anything, just nods stiffly. "The Hero of Ferelden was, of course, a member of the Fereldan Circle before she joined the Wardens."</p><p>"Of course," Linnea says, with sudden delight. "I’ve never thought to ask, Commander; did you know her?" She's vaguely embarrassed by her own excited curiosity, but old habits die hard. She was seventeen when news of the Ferelden Blight made it to Ostwick, along with the elaborate tales of the Circle mage turned Gray Warden who was practically defeating every last darkspawn single handedly. She's less inclined to teenage hero worship these days, but the memory of hearing those stories is still vivid. </p><p>"Not as well as Leliana," Cullen says, and then half smiles, a wry thing that for some reason makes Leliana smile discreetly into her hand. "But yes, I did. I was stationed there when she was recruited, actually."</p><p>"You were?" Linnea can't believe how awed she sounds; it's completely involuntary. "When she killed two blood mages with her bare hands and the First Enchanter smuggled her out under cover of night to the Wardens waiting on the shores?"</p><p>Cullen just stares at her over his biscuit. "I, er. I'm fairly sure that isn't <em>quite</em> what transpired -"</p><p>"I heard it was three blood mages <em>and </em>a demon," Josephine adds, "and that the Wardens stormed the tower to recruit her against the First Enchanter's wishes."</p><p>"Maker's breath," Cullen mutters, "surely you don't truly think -"</p><p>"Cullen, it may be your birthday," Linnea says firmly, "but even so, I absolutely forbid you to crush my dreams this way."</p><p>"Your dreams?" he repeats flatly, and then, with a deadpan expression and tone of voice she hardly thought him capable of, says, "It was, of course, a dozen blood mages. The summons for her recruitment came from Weisshaupt itself, they were so desperate to add her to their ranks."</p><p>"<em>Commander</em>," Linnea says, in her best scandalised voice, and then starts to laugh, completely delighted. Josephine is laughing too, Leliana still smiling into her hand, but Cullen just raises an eyebrow and takes another bite of his biscuit. </p><p>"These are very good," he says, a little helplessly. The compliment is certainly genuine enough despite that, and Josie's face visibly brightens. He can be charmingly gracious when he chooses, despite his awkward tendencies, and it’s comforting to see that Josie finds that too, even if she’s not quite as <em>susceptible</em> as Linnea. "Your judgement is impeccable as always, Ambassador. Thank you for your thoughtfulness."</p><p>"You are most welcome," Josephine says, glowing with success. "I'm so glad."</p><p>"And, of course, to our daring Inquisitor for making such a treacherous pilgrimage," Leliana adds, and Linnea grins at her, catching on immediately.</p><p>"Oh, yes. It's a dangerous business, navigating a wild patisserie. Who knows what you might encounter?" </p><p>"Thank you for your bravery," Cullen says, drier than dry, and take another pastry at Josephine's encouraging gesture. He hasn't glanced towards the door once in the last few minutes, Leliana is doing her best to contain another smile, and Josephine is making headway on a delicious looking tart, joining in the festivities without fretting for once. Linnea can't help but keep smiling at the scene. Perhaps four friends sharing delicious confectionery isn’t so out of reach after all.</p><p>"As long as the spoils are good, then the trials of the patisserie were all for a good cause."</p><p>"The spoils are very good," Cullen says, and smiles directly at her with unexpected warmth. It’s happened enough times now that perhaps it ought to be less unexpected, but yet it still seems to catch her unawares. Especially now, coming off the back of weeks of Cullen seemingly avoiding her, it catches her by surprise.</p><p>She feels suddenly rather flustered and tries to mask it by tilting her head back and laughing more enthusiastically than is entirely called for. She shouldn’t be surprised at this, either; she’s always been pitifully charmed by him when he actually dares to relax, and especially when he smiles at her. She's a glutton for punishment, if punishment is how acutely aware she is of the creases in the corners of his eyes when he laughs. </p><p>And she <em>is</em> acutely aware, because the first thing she noticed when he rushed in with Brigitte was that he was looking less drawn and tired than when she last left Skyhold. She had found herself cataloguing these things even before she knew he’d stopped taking lyrium.</p><p>They haven't talked about the lyrium since he reluctantly called her into his office before she left for the Approach, and she can't help but feel he'd have kept her in the dark forever if he didn't have such a strong sense of duty towards her as Inquisitor. It went some way to explaining why he'd been avoiding her for weeks at least, even if the explanation made her feel hurt and irritated all over again. Was it really so hard for him to share that with her? Did he think she would disapprove? Think poorly of him? Try to convince him to change his mind? There's no explanation that she could think of that made her feel less wretched.</p><p>But here he is, smiling at her. Perhaps they'll make it to friends in the end. Perhaps she'll even figure out how to stop - <em>noticing,</em> and keep her observations strictly professional.</p><p>"I have had a coat tailored," Josephine says apologetically, and Cullen looks to her instead of Linnea, which is honestly a relief. She takes a hurried bite of a tart to distract herself. "I know that you insisted on no gifts, but…" </p><p> "It isn't really a gift," Leliana adds firmly, "it's a strongly worded request. Perhaps not truly even a request, as that implies you can decline -"</p><p>"There are some events that I simply must insist on you attending and looking the part," Josephine continues, "they are few and far between, but I would very much appreciate your diplomacy on these occasions."</p><p>"I - fine," Cullen mumbles, and Josie and Leliana exchange a surprised but triumphant look. He looks vaguely affronted at their astonishment. "I don't actually relish embarrassing you, Lady Josephine," he says, almost sheepish. "Contrary to what you may believe."</p><p>"I believe no such thing," Josephine says immediately, "and you are never an embarrassment, Cullen."</p><p>"That's kind of you to say," Cullen says wryly, and gives Linnea a sideways look. She’s not sure when she became his co-conspirator in this, but she’s enjoying it immensely. "Although undoubtedly not quite the truth."</p><p>Leliana makes an amused sound. "Did you really tell Compte Doucet that ceremonial armor is a waste of steel?" </p><p>"Well, <em>yes</em>, but -"</p><p>"Commander, you didn't!"</p><p>"There was context," Cullen says doggedly, "we were discussing how to prioritise resources! He completely twisted my words."</p><p>"Josie," Leliana says mournfully, ignoring his protests, "there's no coat you can have made that will help him with the Game, I'm afraid."</p><p>"Perhaps not," Josephine says, "but I <em>can</em> distract them with beautiful tailoring."</p><p>"I fear Leliana may be right," Cullen says rather cheerfully, as if his failings at the Game are a source of personal pride, "and I will only complicate matters for you, Lady Josephine."</p><p>"It may all hinge on just how flattering this coat is," Leliana muses, giving Cullen an appraising look which he meets with a half-hearted scowl. "Oh, don't give me that, Commander," she continues, grinning at him wickedly, "I know there's a little vanity in that stubborn head of yours just waiting to be given free reign. Or do you simply roll out of bed with your hair so perfectly coiffed?"</p><p>"It is <em>not </em>perfectly -" Cullen clamps his mouth shut, clearly sensing his own imminent defeat. He flounders for a moment, before continuing with renewed determination. "I hardly think <em>vanity</em> is the missing ingredient in my charming the Orlesian court."</p><p>"Nonsense, there's nothing the court loves more than a man who knows exactly how handsome he is." Leliana takes another delicate forkful of her pastry, watching Cullen closely. Linnea is overjoyed to watch an expert at work; Leliana baits him so beautifully. </p><p>Cullen opens and shuts his mouth a few times, and it takes everything she has not to laugh.</p><p>"You see?" Leliana says, more to Josephine than Cullen. "He can't agree with me to avoid seeming vain, and he can't disagree to avoid seeming rude. Fereldans! They're impossible."</p><p>"Modesty and politeness are very admirable traits," Josephine says loyally, but she's fighting a smile without much success. "Although perhaps not especially valuable currency in the Great Game."</p><p>"That’s certainly not a problem at my end,” Cullen says, with some disgust, “it’s not as though I’ve any other currency to speak of in this ridiculous game, so it hardly matters.”</p><p>“You’re far too hard on yourself, Commander. You’re well respected amongst the nobility.” Josephine speaks in a consoling tone. “Well, apart from - not to be indelicate, but Compte Doucet is -  a difficult man -“</p><p>“He’s vile,” Linnea says with feeling, earning a startled but gratified look from Cullen and a horrified one from their ambassador. “Really, Josie, he’s <em>awful</em>. He kept patting me on the head, he’s such a patronising, pompous man -“</p><p>“- and a generous patron,” Josephine says wearily, “I keep telling myself that, but -“</p><p>“- the only thing that kept me going through that entire insufferable dinner was imagining pouring my wine all over his greasy head,” Linnea finishes stubbornly, and Cullen ducks behind his pastry, biting down on a grin. “So I certainly wouldn’t lose any sleep over his good opinion, Cullen.”</p><p>“I won’t be losing sleep over any Orlesian opinions of me, least of all jumped up minor houses with delusions of - er,” Cullen shoots her a panicked look. “Not to imply that - I know your family - I may have worded that poorly, I apologise.”</p><p>“Oh, no - ‘jumped up’ is precisely what my family is,” Linnea says agreeably, enjoying his still rather panicked confusion. “I wouldn’t trouble yourself with their opinion, either. I certainly don’t.”</p><p>“I’m sorry nonetheless,” he says, unexpectedly eloquent and wonderfully contrite. “I don’t place much stock in noble opinions, but I do value <em>your</em> good opinion, and I’m sorry to have implied otherwise.”</p><p>“Oh,” she manages weakly. He’s looking at her with an endearingly earnest expression, and she isn’t sure she can entirely cope with it. She can feel the heat in her cheeks, and only hopes it’s not too obvious to see. Leliana doesn’t miss a thing.</p><p>“I see how it is,” Leliana says playfully, and Linnea has never been more fervently grateful to have attention drawn away from her. “Do my and Josie’s opinions have no value to you? Or is it only our dear Inquisitor who merits a personal apology?”</p><p>“Don’t be absurd,” Cullen mutters, flushing as Leliana and Josephine laugh. “Obviously your opinions matter.”</p><p>Leliana’s eyes are mischievous again. “Just not as much, then?”</p><p>Cullen sighs at length, but her teasing clearly sits comfortably with him, to Linnea’s slight surprise. “I said I’d wear the coat, didn’t I?”</p><p>“You’ll look tremendously dashing,” Josephine tells him warmly, “and I give you my word that I will never seat you next to Doucet again.”</p><p>“A truly generous birthday gift, Lady Josephine. Thank you.”</p><p>Josie laughs. “You’re most welcome, Commander.”</p><p>“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of that for my next birthday?” Linnea asks hopefully, expecting both Josie’s defeated sigh and Cullen’s quiet chuckle, but enjoying the latter much, much more. Doucet is an easy target, and if taking aim distances her more from him and his ilk, then all the better. How pathetic, she thinks weakly, that she’s so eager for <em>Cullen’s </em>good opinion, so eager to draw a line between herself and the Trevelyan name she has no real claim to either way. It’s a pointless piece of performance, really.</p><p>She meets his gaze again to find him still smiling at her and not for the first time, as it warms her through pleasantly, she wonders if perhaps, <em>perhaps</em> - but it’s all moot anyway because it’s such a truly absurd situation. A mere six months ago he would have been her <em>jailer</em>, and she’s not sure even now that he doesn’t think she’s dangerously untethered, and she can’t believe her useless feelings are still pulling her in his direction. It would almost be kinder if she could convince herself he was truly disinterested, because at least then she might be persuaded to try and rid herself of <em>this</em> for good. Instead, it lingers determinedly, because she just can’t quite summon the conviction that this is all just a professional misunderstanding. Maybe she’s deluded.</p><p>If Cullen was afraid that revealing his choice to stop lyrium would change something between them, then he was right. Something <em>has</em> shifted. She can’t for the life of her see a jailer in the same man risking his life to leave that all in the dust. She sees a lot of things she can’t quite piece together, but she doesn’t see that. She sees a young boy recruited into an Order he couldn’t possibly understand, she sees a young man given a leash in the guise of religious devotion, and sometimes she sees the old man he could have been, though whether ravaged by lyrium or a lack of it, she can’t say. </p><p>Maybe it’s in <em>this</em> that she’s deluded, maybe she’s too quick to forgive and too eager to trust, maybe she’s betraying centuries of people like her, locked in towers subject to the cruelty of people like him. Maybe it’s all just a manifestation of some kind of fucked up fantasy, and she ought to go back to surreptitiously perusing the <em>Randy Dowager</em> and leave that sort of thing in the realm of fiction where it belongs. Let Varric write his forbidden romances. She can read them curled up in the privacy of her quarters and a hot bath, let her imagination take all the taboo delight it longs for, and then draw a line firmly beneath it without inviting it into her actual reality.</p><p>The truly pathetic part isn’t even that she wants <em>him</em>, it’s that she wants to be wrong. She wants him to be the exception to the rule, the Templar that walked away in disgust and needn’t be thought of in terms of jailor or jailed. If she thought he was thinking the same thing about her, she’d be furious, but here she is. Hoping.</p><p>She ducks away from Cullen’s gaze, disoriented and flushing, and chances a quick glance at the ever observant Leliana. Not that her thoughts are that easily read, but the intensity of her expression was probably fairly evident. Leliana, however, isn’t looking at them at all.</p><p>“I have a marvellous story about the Compte from several years ago,” Leliana says thoughtfully, “involving an escaped nug, some rotten fish, and a very expensive pair of shoes…"</p><p>They pass the next hour in a very pleasant fashion, listening to Leliana’s outrageous tales and enjoying good food, and Linnea doesn’t quite manage to look Cullen in the eye again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>With a strong and painful sense of déjà vu, Linnea finds herself lying flat on her back in the dirt, thoroughly winded. At least, she thinks ruefully, scrambling back to her feet as quick as she can, she’s better at it now. Not that she ever thought being thrown to the ground would be a skill she’d find herself excelling at, but here she is. Her life has taken a lot of strange turns in the past few months, and this is by no means the strangest. She grabs for her staff frantically and manages to deflect Cassandra’s next blow, if a little wildly.</p><p>“Better,” Cassandra says, and throws Linnea her wooden sword from where she’d knocked it out of her hands. It’s a stand in for her spirit blade, much to Vivienne’s endless amusement. Two highly trained and skilled Knight Enchanters available at her beck and call, and yet she’s outside scrabbling around in the dirt with Cassandra and some wooden practice blades. No doubt Commander Helaine has another tedious hour of theory prepared to help her better understand the nature of her mana blade and how it draws from the Fade, and no doubt Vivienne would prefer to spend the afternoon critiquing and improving her barriers and spell form. </p><p>There are at least ten people at any given moment telling Linnea's what's in her best interests, these days. That's just her life now. She's getting better at being thrown to the ground, and she’s getting better at discerning what it is that she actually needs, and somehow, right now the former is the latter. Not a lecture or a lesson in theory, but a delightfully intimidating woman hitting her with a wooden sword until she learns to do better. Vivienne doesn't approve, but she doesn't approve of a lot of things that Linnea is nonetheless going to continue doing. Cassandra's preferred training nook is at least tucked away from the busiest thoroughfares of Skyhold, so she can't even protest on the basis that the Inquisitor is embarrassing herself publicly. <em>Just privately</em>, Linnea thinks with amusement, brushing some dirt from her cheek impatiently.</p><p>“You’re getting much quicker.”</p><p>"It's the transition I still don't think I have quite right," Linnea says, snapping the sword back into the scabbard at her hip and taking up her customary two-handed hold on her staff. "I swing, plant -" The staff hits the dust decisively. "- reach with my right hand -" She grabs her sword. </p><p>Cassandra taps Linnea's knuckles with her own wooden sword. "Move your grip lower."</p><p>Linnea starts again, newly determined. "Alright, swing, plant -"</p><p>"Much smoother. Now <em>quicker</em>."</p><p>The weather in Skyhold doesn’t quite work as it should at this altitude in the Frostbacks, and though Solas has been cautiously non-committal in response to her questioning, Linnea’s fairly sure the cause is magical. It’s an unseasonably warm afternoon, as they often are, the breeze gentle and the light from the sun as golden as ever. While it’s nice to train without the layer upon sweaty layer that the cold air of Haven generally required, it does mean that when Cassandra whacks her on the arm - albeit with her blunt, wooden sword - it hits her skin directly with a sharp stinging blow. The surprise of it loosens her grip and sends Linnea's sword clattering once more.</p><p>“That was quicker, but you left yourself open," Cassandra says briskly, but Linnea knows her well enough to see the amusement there now, and so she grins. Cassandra enjoys frustrating her as much as she - inexplicably - enjoys being frustrated. </p><p>“I'd just like to point out it’s considerably easier when I don't have to account for a permanent wooden blade smacking against my leg."</p><p>“In that case,” Cassandra says, raising an eyebrow, "just imagine your mastery of the technique when you no longer have to."</p><p>This is a common refrain of Cassandra’s: train in more difficult circumstances, so that less challenging scenarios feel comparatively effortless. The most irritating thing about it is that she's probably right.</p><p>"I don't know how you cope without a retractable, magic sword. Seems terribly impractical."</p><p>"Is that so?"</p><p> “Absolutely. Just think of the time you could save without needing to maintain it. No polishing, no sharpening, not to mention no carrying all that extra weight <em>-"</em></p><p>"And yet somehow, we get by," comes a voice from behind her, and even as she's turning around she knows exactly who it is. Cullen holds out her practice sword to her with a small, wry smile on his face. “Steel has always served me perfectly well.”</p><p>Linnea's head races through three absurd thoughts in quick succession, each more pitiful than the last. The first is dismay that Cullen has happened across their training session to find her sweaty and dishevelled and not at all at her best, probably with dirt all down her back from her latest tumble. The second thought is that, <em>actually</em>, maybe she isn't so dismayed after all, that maybe sweaty and dishevelled could be a look that works in her favour, particularly given the light tunic that - with any luck - is sticking to her in potentially flattering ways. The third thought drags her right back to dismay that he's happening across this in such close proximity to Cassandra who definitely <em>is</em> managing to look sweaty and dishevelled in an appealing way, and with whom Linnea is sure to pale in comparison.</p><p>Her fourth and final thought in this rapid stream of consciousness is that she's an idiot. Someone really ought to bodily haul her over the ramparts into a snowdrift.</p><p>Nonetheless, she recovers admirably.</p><p>“How wonderful,” she says, slightly breathless and levelling Cullen with her best acerbic look as she takes the sword from him. “Just what I wanted: an audience. One with <em>opinions</em>, as well.”</p><p>Cullen remains unmoved, that wry smile still on his face. Regrettably, even as he gets used to her teasing and prodding she doesn’t enjoy it any less. If only she did, then there might be some motivation for her to stop. “Merely a messenger,” he says, and true enough, he has some papers tucked under his arm, “but I see Lady Cassandra is otherwise engaged; I can speak with her at a more convenient time.”</p><p>“Just a moment,” Cassandra says, wiping her forehead. “We are nearly finished here, if you can wait.”</p><p>“I don’t wish to intrude,” Cullen says, still looking at Linnea. She raises her eyebrows. </p><p>“There’s no intrusion,” Cassandra says impatiently, beckoning to Linnea. “A final time, Inquisitor?”</p><p>Linnea huffs in a combination of resignation and amusement, but sheathes her wooden sword and readies her staff. “Fine. But if he throws me off my game -“</p><p>“Maker forbid we face enemies in groups of two or more,” Cassandra says dryly, which shuts her up. She thinks she hears a muffled chuckle from Cullen behind her.</p><p>She takes a steadying breath and they run the drill from the top, Linnea using her staff two-handed and trying her best to ignore Cullen’s distracting presence, even as he stands in polite silence. </p><p>They parry for a few moments, Linnea deflecting both Cassandra’s sword and shield in the similar but distinct movements that the Seeker has drilled so thoroughly into her that she’s fairly confident she doesn’t embarrass herself. Next, the movement they’ve been drilling this particular session: Linnea plants her staff and reaches for her own sword, pulling it through into an immediate strike before Cassandra can take advantage of the opening she leaves. She almost thinks she has it - moving swiftly to one side and avoiding Cassandra’s next blow - but then her left arm stings sharply as Cassandra hits it with another merciless swing.</p><p>“Much better,” Cassandra says, sounding pleased despite her apparent success in finding a weak spot in Linnea’s defences, “perhaps a more offensive motion with your staff as you strike?” </p><p>“Like this?” Linnea enjoys this: the part where the rarity of being a mage wielding both sword and staff presents a unique challenge to her tutor. She likes watching Cassandra puzzle it out, a lifetime of martial excellence applied to something new and unusual.</p><p>“Perhaps a little higher,” Cassandra says thoughtfully, reaching out to adjust her hands. “Maybe if we try again with -" She glances over at Cullen. “- but I am keeping the Commander waiting. You have the trade routes?”</p><p>“Yes, but don’t rush on my account.”</p><p>Cassandra ignores him, holding out a hand. “The maps?” Cullen hands them over obediently, and watches as she shuffles through them. “Let me take a look,” she says distractedly, and then thrusts her practice weapons impatiently towards him, which he scrabbles to catch with a look of surprise. “Run the drill with Linnea, a fresh pair of eyes may be useful.”</p><p>“I don’t think -“ starts Cullen hurriedly, just as Linnea lets out a rushed: “Oh, <em>no</em> -“</p><p>Cassandra just looks blankly at them both. “Is something the matter?"</p><p>“No, but -“ Linnea starts, and then just looks at Cassandra with her mouth half open. She can’t exactly tell her the truth, not that she’s even sure what the truth <em>is</em>. That her ill-advised attraction to him has grown completely out of hand, not to mention that there’s a distinct possibility he feels similarly? That it’s professionally inappropriate even without the troubling question of whether or not he's actually quite genuinely afraid of her? Or just that when she gets within five paces of him at the moment she feels as though she will actually, <em>physically</em> expire from the tension between them?</p><p>“Um,” she says eloquently, instead. “I’m sure the Commander is very busy.”</p><p>“I’m afraid I am,” Cullen says firmly, taking the excuse she offers him with enthusiasm. She ought to be offended. “And, I'm, er -“</p><p>Cassandra is still looking at them both with a faint expression of incredulity.</p><p>“Worried that I’ll emerge victorious not just on the chess board?” Linnea says before she can control her idiotic propensity to talk before she engages her brain. She presses her lips together immediately, but it’s far too late. She knows immediately what she’s setting in motion, somehow, and can’t find it within herself to regret it. </p><p>“Hardly,” Cullen mutters, “seeing as how making an illegal diagonal movement is impossible off the board.”</p><p>“I’m not sure what you’re accusing me of, Commander.”</p><p>He snorts. “Aren’t you?”</p><p>“And yet you didn’t mention this at the time?” Linnea demands indignantly. “Accusing me after the fact is a strange way to -“ She stops and glares at him, realisation dawning. “Did you <em>let</em> me win?”</p><p>It’s Cullen's turn to clamp his mouth shut with a stubborn expression.</p><p>Cassandra looks wearily into the distance beyond them with the expression of someone slowly realising that they’re surrounded by fools. She isn’t exactly wrong. “The drill,” she says in a drained tone, “unless you're not so busy as to find time for a chess match, of course?"</p><p>"The drill," Linnea mumbles, suitably chastened. "If you can spare the time, Commander," she adds politely, and she suspects it's Cassandra's utterly deadpan stare that gets him to hurriedly agree. They find themselves, apparently against their will, facing each other in the circle of trampled dirt that passes for a training ring, each holding their respective weapons and neither quite sure how to proceed.</p><p>Linnea is once more acutely aware of just how sweaty and dischelled she is after Cassandra’s ministrations, and is still just as unsure if this is flattering or rather disgusting. At least Cullen isn't in his full plate regalia to make the contrast even more ridiculous, but he is wearing what Linnea would guess is a compromise as far as Josie is concerned, a neatly tailored but plain gambeson. Practical enough that he won't complain, but presumably better received by their guests of the moment. </p><p>Cullen too seems to take in her current appearance, with the briefest and politest of glances as he adjusts his grip on his sword, and Linnea wipes her forehead with her wrist self consciously. Terribly gentlemanly, of course, but it doesn't help her at all. <em>Just give me some indication I’m not going completely mad</em>, she wants to howl, <em>just stare awkwardly at my chest or something normal like that, just do </em>something<em>, anything -</em></p><p>“The drill?” he says, and gives his arm an irritated shake as the fabric creases awkwardly around his wrist. Longer sleeves are very in vogue at present, and it's the final confirmation she needs that Josephine is behind this particular garment. “I believe you were practicing the transition from staff to sword? Would you like me to, er -”</p><p>“Just try and make it difficult for me, I suppose,” she says, spinning her staff and feeling suddenly nervous. “Actually difficult, if you please,” she adds with a stern look, “I’d rather not be coddled unnecessarily <em>off </em>the chess board, too.”</p><p>He does actually look contrite then, bowing his head sheepishly. “Of course.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>Linnea gathers herself and after a very pregnant pause where they both seem once more struck by uncertainty, she spins her staff decisively and approaches him with intent. Unlike with Cassandra, and despite their agreement, they’re both more cautious in their strikes. There are a few long moments where they proceed like this, <em>politely</em> - for lack of a better word - parrying neatly and settling into a rhythm that whilst steady, isn’t all that challenging. Despite this, his competence and familiarity with a sword and shield is still evident, and Linnea finds this as fascinating as ever. She still mostly only ever sees him doing paperwork, which is presumably rather at odds with how he’s spent most of his life.</p><p>As her confidence grows and she becomes a little more aggressive, so does he, and in this sense, he’s a much more satisfying training partner than Cassandra, who gives everything her all for every single second of every drill. Cullen is happy just to match her, which might not push her in the same way, but it is rather easier to refine one’s form like this. </p><p>She plants her staff and draws her sword in a smooth motion she hasn’t quite managed before, pulling her staff back immediately into the position Cassandra had suggested and deflecting Cullen’s next measured strike with a satisfied grin. He lowers his shield as she takes a step back and glances as Cassandra. She’s still frowning down at the papers.</p><p>“That certainly looked as though you had it.”</p><p>“More or less,” she says, and grins. “Cassandra’s a perfectionist, however.”</p><p>“Of course. Well, she may be right about your grip, if that’s helpful,” Cullen says, and takes a step forward to gesture to her staff. He’s in professional Commander training mode now and thinks nothing of getting in her space, but Linnea starts a little to find him so close. </p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“If your left hand is slightly further up,” he says, and she moves it obediently. “Straighten your arm -” He reaches out absently to touch his fingers to her elbow, probably used to correcting his troops and not intending anything more than a practical gesture, but as he does so, she whips her head up with a jolt and they meet each other’s eyes. It’s suddenly very awkward. She wishes she could say the tension was enjoyable, but truthfully, she mostly just feels deflated. This isn’t how it is in Varric’s novels. If it was, he would’ve been looking for any excuse to get close to her, instead of it being an awkward consequence of his professional advice. This way, she doesn’t feel desirable or giddy or anything else particularly nice; she just feels pathetic. It’s just another lesson she has to learn in the uphill struggle that is trying to be the kind of Inquisitor they all deserve.</p><p>She closes her eyes briefly in mortification. </p><p>But then, as Cullen draws back with a murmured apology, the training-the-troops facade slips and his gaze drops rather unprofessionally for a moment before he clears his throat. After a brief second where she’s too stunned to really register it, Linnea has to bite down on her bottom lip hard to stop from grinning, her useless heart thudding in her chest. Not that Cullen's misplaced gaze says anything about his <em>heart</em>, and not that she's exactly prepared to admit that <em>hers</em> has anything to any reason to care either, but it thuds happily nonetheless.</p><p>There's something about someone looking at her and doing something as mundane and simple as wanting her, on any level at all, that is so refreshing she could almost cry with relief. People look at her in a lot of ways, these days. With awe, wonder. Disgust, fear. It's enough to wear anyone down. The fact that it’s<em> Cullen</em> rather than anybody else only makes her giddier. </p><p>"Your advice is noted," she says, somewhat dazed. "I, ah - thank you for your assistance."</p><p>“Of course.” Cullen glances over at Cassandra warily, but she’s still paying them very little attention. “I hear you’re quite something in the field with that thing. The - the magical sword, that is,” he adds uncertainty, gesturing at the wooden one she holds instead.</p><p>“<em>Do</em> you,” she says, and he flushes slightly, to her delight.</p><p>“There’s a particularly flattering report from one of our soldiers in the Emerald Graves, where I believe you recently stopped a giant crushing their camp.”</p><p>“All in a day’s work,” she says with a grin, “but I suspect I still have a lot yet to master, although I appreciate their gratitude.”</p><p>“Judging by the reports, I’d say you’re being modest,” Cullen says, and then looks away from her ostensibly to adjust the strapping on the back of the shield. He really does have a delightfully awkward streak. If he’s trying to compliment her, she wishes he’d just come out and do it. Then again, maybe she doesn’t. She’s not sure she could cope. "Anyway,” he continues, still fiddling with the straps, “I'm sure you're keen for a well earned rest after such a long training session with the infatigable Lady Cassandra."</p><p>"Well, this <em>is</em> rather backwards."</p><p>He looks back up at her. "Excuse me?"</p><p>Linnea tilts her head to one side with a grin. "<em>You</em> telling <em>me</em> to get some rest? Isn’t it usually the other way around?"</p><p>"I suppose so," he says, raising an eyebrow. "Both Josephine and Leliana also keep commenting on how tired I look, I'm starting to think I should be reading more into it."</p><p>"Not at all," she says, "it's only notable because it's so markedly different to your usual handsome self, of course."</p><p>"Er," Cullen says, and then clears his throat again with another darting glance in Cassandra's direction. Linnea presses her fingers to her mouth and tries not to laugh. "Well, at any rate -"</p><p>To her profound disappointment he's cut off by Cassandra, who strides over as he looks at her and hands the papers back to him with a sigh. "It isn't quite enough detail to justify sending troops, is it?"</p><p>"That was my conclusion."</p><p>"Can Leliana commit more of her people to mapping it?"</p><p>"Potentially."</p><p>Cassandra sighs again. "I assume that means I need to put my case to her. Is she still with those dreadful birds?"</p><p>"She is," Cullen says with amusement, looking sideways at Linnea who has to press her fingers even more firmly to her mouth.</p><p>"I'll join you there in a moment," Cassandra says, and Cullen nods briskly. He gives Linnea one last look with the ghost of a smile, then hands Cassandra back her training weapons and sets off towards the main hall. </p><p>"No more drills," Linnea says fervently, trying and failing not to watch Cullen out the corner of her eye, "have mercy, Lady Seeker."</p><p>"No more," Cassandra says dryly, then smiles. "We've made good progress."</p><p>"I hope so."</p><p>"I'm quite confident. Again tomorrow?"</p><p>"For my sins," Linnea says cheerfully, earning an amused snort. "Good luck with Leliana."</p><p>"Quite." Cassandra places her sword back in the training rack before giving Linnea a shrewd look. “You and the Commander have... resolved your differences?”</p><p>“I suppose so. Insomuch as they can be resolved.”</p><p>“Hm.” Cassandra is still looking at her far too sharply for Linnea’s liking. “Forgive my intrusion, but it seems to me that there is some - <em>attraction</em>, between you and him -“</p><p>“Of course not,” Linnea says, but she can feel her cheeks burning. </p><p>“Then I am mistaken,” Cassandra says politely, brushing her shield down absently. Linnea hopes this will be the end of it, but then she adds flatly, “Are you <em>quite</em> sure?”</p><p>“Very sure,” Linnea mutters, and Cassandra raises an eyebrow. She’s still flushing furiously. “Well, it’s - there’s - by the Maker, must we really discuss this? There’s nothing going on, if that’s what you’re asking, so you needn’t worry on that front.”</p><p>“I wasn’t worried,” Cassandra says, a little affronted. “We needn’t discuss it, if you’d prefer. I was merely asking as your friend.”</p><p>“That’s low,” Linnea tells her, pinching the bridge of her nose with embarrassment, “playing the ‘friend’ card to weasel something out of me. I expected this of Varric, but not of you.”</p><p>Cassandra just gives her a small half-smile. “Are we not friends?”</p><p>“Of course we are.”</p><p>“Then you know that I’ve grown to know you quite well, Inquisitor.” </p><p>Linnea groans at length. “Please, don’t say it. I think I may actually die of embarrassment, and you’d have to find a new Inquisitor. I’d hate for you to have to go to all that trouble all over again.”</p><p>Cassandra actually chuckles at that. “Perhaps. For what it’s worth, I think it’s romantic.”</p><p>“Yes, I imagine you do.” Linnea scuffs her feet in the dirt, her private bubble of hope popping quite suddenly and leaving her with a sour taste in her mouth. “Most people who didn’t grow up prisoner in a Circle are rather more keen on the forbidden Templar-Mage romance than anyone who did would be.”</p><p>“I didn’t mean that, actually.” Cassandra folds her arms and looks at her as she leans against the weaponry stand. “Do you still think of him in those terms?”</p><p>“I think,” Linnea says carefully, “it would be naive of me to think I could <em>stop</em>, even if I wanted to. That goes for him as well.”</p><p>“But you do want to?”</p><p>“I want everyone to. I want the whole dreadful set up to be a distasteful part of history we all forget about.”</p><p>“To forget is to make the same mistakes again, is it not?” Cassandra says thoughtfully, but she doesn’t seem to require an answer. </p><p>They just stand together quietly for a moment, before Linnea asks begrudgingly: “What did you mean, then? When you said it was romantic?”</p><p>“The Inquisitor and the Commander is a rather romantic notion, isn’t it?” Cassandra sounds genuinely wistful; Linnea has to bite down on a grin. “Finding love in the midst of war.”</p><p>“I’d have thought you’d find it inappropriate. Terribly unprofessional.”</p><p>“Absolutely,” Cassandra says, “but that only makes it more thrilling.”</p><p>“Well, I know what I’m asking Varric to write next,” Linnea teases, but she’s feeling more dejected by the second. “But I can assure you, there’s nothing unprofessional going on.” </p><p>“Oh,” Cassandra says, with tangible disappointment. “I suppose that’s probably for the best, all things considered.”</p><p>Linnea looks down at her hands, the Anchor glowing gently in one, her staff held in her other, more calloused, palm. </p><p>“I suppose so,” she says.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Cullen looks absolutely dreadful. No doubt there’s nothing he’d want less than her noticing this, never mind dwelling on it, but it’s impossible to ignore. It’s hard to concentrate on the meeting when he’s so clearly suffering, even if Leliana and Josephine manage to do so seamlessly. </p><p>He’s leaning heavily on the table with both hands, which isn’t in itself an unusual position for him to be in, but they’ve long since abandoned talking about the markers on its surface. He’s pale and drawn, with red rimmed eyes and a sheen to his forehead. Linnea can’t recall if she’s ever seen him look quite this unwell. She may have been inclined to wave away previous bouts of ill-health due to not knowing what was causing it, but surely she didn’t miss anything quite this notable.</p><p>Now and then he shuts his eyes for a moment, as if he’s dizzy. It’s difficult to watch him try to compose himself again, and harder still not to just blurt out that they should conclude their meeting. He wouldn’t appreciate it.</p><p>She isn’t surprised by the pity she feels for him, or the anxious way she keeps glancing across at him, or that she’s concerned about his ability to continue as their commander. What she is surprised by are the waves of anger that keep welling up behind the worry, the way she’s suddenly overcome with a desire to throttle someone - <em>anyone</em> she can reasonably hold responsible for all the ways the Chantry has wronged him, and everyone else. She’s used to feeling fury at the Chantry, just not from this particular angle.</p><p>“Which reminds me, Inquisitor,” Josephine says, and Linnea forces herself to tune back into the conversation, “did you prepare that locket for Lady Trevelyan?”</p><p>“Ah,” Linnea says delicately, “I… no. I did not.”</p><p>“No?”</p><p>“I’ve decided against it,” she says, trying at least to sound regretful for the trouble she’s causing. She looks across at Cullen, but he doesn’t raise his head.</p><p>“I see,” Josephine says politely. “Not to worry, I will simply need to craft a suitable response, so no harm done. Have you the letter to hand?”</p><p>Linnea winces. “No.”</p><p>“Perhaps you could leave it with me when you get a moment?”</p><p>“About that,” Linnea says guiltily, “is it a problem if I no longer have it?”</p><p>Josephine and Leliana are both looking at her with two very different, but very alarming expressions. “Do you no longer have it?”</p><p>Well, there’s no point dragging this out. “I don’t, I’m afraid. I burned it.” At this, Cullen does glance up, still leaning on the table but watching her carefully with his slightly bloodshot eyes.</p><p>“You burned it?” Josie repeats weakly.</p><p>“I - yes.”</p><p>“You burned it,” Josie repeats again, and Linnea tries to look contrite.</p><p>“It was just the nerve of it,” she mutters, and she could swear she sees a slight smile on Cullen’s face. “Is it essential you see it in order to reply?”</p><p>“Well, not <em>exactly</em> - if you can recall the wording, perhaps that will be sufficient.”</p><p>The resulting silence is answer enough, and Linnea presses her lips together with a suitably remorseful expression.</p><p>“I see,” Josephine says faintly, “I - I need some time to consider this.”</p><p>“I’m so sorry, Josie.”</p><p>“It’s no trouble,” she says, although it clearly is a great deal of trouble. “I’m sure we can find a satisfactory conclusion.”</p><p>There’s another awkward silence in which Linnea shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot.</p><p>“Perhaps we should wrap things up,” Leliana suggests eventually, and she’s only too happy to agree, shuffling through a stack of papers sheepishly as Josephine and Leliana leave so she doesn’t need to meet their gaze.</p><p>She’s about to follow them when she notices Cullen is still there, leaning against the table with one hand and rubbing at his forehead with the other. She hesitates at the doorway.</p><p>“Cullen?” she says, and he raises his head just enough to look at her with an exhausted expression. “Are you all right?”</p><p>“I’m fine,” he says, his voice a little hoarse. He evidently isn’t fine. </p><p>“Can I… get you anything?” She casts about desperately for something useful to offer. “Anything I can help with?”</p><p>“I’m fine,” he repeats firmly, with a note of finality that doesn’t encourage any further enquiries. “Thank you.”</p><p>She hovers in the doorway for another moment, feeling deeply useless in every way. He stayed for her, didn’t he? When she was snivelling pathetically, he stayed, he didn’t know how to offer help either, but he stayed. Surely she owes him that much.</p><p>He nods at her with that same finality to it, and her conviction falters. She slips out the door with a wan smile, and leaves him to the solitude he's clearly hoping for.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Linnea finds that she can't stop feeling guilty and fretting about it over the course of the afternoon, though it takes her well into the evening before she summons the nerve to do anything about it. </p><p>The door to his office is shut - an unusual thing in itself - so she knocks briskly on it with a confidence she doesn't feel intruding on him in this way. She has to knock three times before she hears a weary reply asking who it is, by which point she's chewing on her lip quite anxiously. Rather than give her answer from behind the door, she opens it and pokes her head in cautiously.</p><p>"May I?" she says, and Cullen starts to get to his feet, not looking entirely steady, before she gestures for him to sit down and closes the door behind her. It makes the most dreadful squeak, and he winces visibly. "Oh! - sorry."</p><p>"No, it's just - a headache." He sinks back into the seat behind his desk. "Is there something that requires my attention?"</p><p>"Yes, actually, starting with this." She places the bottle on his desk with an apologetic expression. "Just a fairly simple elfroot concoction, but it should take the edge off. I'm warned it may make you drowsy, but given that you seem to completely ignore any and all suggestions of getting a normal amount of sleep, I don’t think that’s such a terrible thing."</p><p>Cullen just looks at it with a faintly confused expression.</p><p>"Have you eaten? I didn't know whether to bring food, but I can drop by the kitchen and -"</p><p>"There's really no need," he says hurriedly, "please don't trouble yourself."</p><p>She ignores him, retrieving an empty and sufficiently clean-looking mug from one of his shelves, and uncorking the bottle, pouring it out with a pointed look. </p><p>"Inquisitor, you really don't need to -"</p><p>"I know," she says, pushing the mug in front of him and perching herself on the edge of his desk as she gives him an appraising look. "And I know you don't like being fussed over, but - and forgive my bluntness - you really do look terrible, so would you please humour me?"</p><p>Cullen looks down at the mug with apparent bewilderment, and she can see that he's shivering slightly even as his forehead is still pallid and damp. "I'm fine."</p><p>"Again, forgive me - but you're clearly not. I know I'm the last person you want to see right now, but -" She presses a hand to his forehead to find it worryingly hot.</p><p>"I wouldn't say that," he says quietly, and she pauses for a moment, unsure quite what to make of that, hand still on his forehead. "Sorry," he mumbles, his brow furrowing beneath her fingers. </p><p>"You've got quite a fever," she says gently, "is this normal?"</p><p>He closes his eyes. "It's not… unusual. It will pass."</p><p>"And in the meantime?"</p><p>"It won't affect my duties."</p><p>"Cullen," she says, exasperated, "I'm not here because I'm worried about your <em>duties</em>. Would it help to have something cool on your forehead?"</p><p>"Inquisitor," he says, sounding pained again, "I appreciate your concern, but you really needn't go to any trouble -"</p><p>"I've already brought a damp cloth, you obstinate man," she tells him, and finally, something like a smile flickers across his face. "Let me just cool it down."</p><p>The full body flinch he makes as she ices the cloth in her hands with magic is impossible to miss. It's painful to see, not least because it's directed at her, but his discomfort is palpable. She'd almost forgotten, but more fool her for thinking this is something either of them could ever forget. </p><p>She feels as though ignoring it now would only make it worse, so she doesn't do him the disservice of pretending.</p><p>"I'm sorry," she says, as evenly as she can, trying not to let any of the misery come through in her voice. "I should have warned you I was going to do that."</p><p>Cullen's expression is hard to read, but none of it looks good. His shoulders sag and he leans forward on his elbows, but he doesn't say anything. Linnea brushes some of the residual ice from one side of the folded cloth to give him a moment to compose himself, and to give herself a moment too, if she’s being completely honest. </p><p>"It's quite cool now," she says eventually, "would it help?"</p><p>He wets his lips and swallows convulsively. "It - it might. Thank you."</p><p>“Don’t feel you need to agree to be polite. I won’t be offended.”</p><p>“I’m not,” he says faintly, and there’s a long pause during which she stays as still as she can. “I think it might help,” he says eventually, and she takes that to be sufficient agreement for her to extend the cloth towards him.</p><p>If his hands weren't shaking so much, she'd hand it directly to him, and not risk spooking him again with the proximity to her or her magic. As it is, she reaches out to place the cloth carefully on his forehead, Cullen leaning back slightly in his chair and keeping his eyes half closed. She has the impression it's taking all his concentration to stay still.</p><p>"All right," she says quietly, feeling wretched, "I'll leave you in peace. Remember to drink that draught." She moves the mug slowly across the desk a little more so it’s right beside his hand, and then stands up.</p><p>"Linnea," he says, and it's the way he says her name as much as it’s the weak grip on her hand that stops her from moving away. His fingers are freezing cold. She waits; he seems to be struggling for words.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>"I'm sorry. I fear I'm making a fool of myself."</p><p>"No more than usual," she says, and before she can be horrified at her inappropriate timing for moments of levity, there's a weak chuckle from Cullen. "You've nothing to apologise for," she adds, and squeezes his hand where it’s still gripping hers. He doesn't seem to be all that aware of it.</p><p>“I don’t particularly enjoy being seen like this.”</p><p>“I know,” she says, and leans against the desk again as he doesn’t appear to be letting go. “I’m sorry for intruding.”</p><p>He frowns. “That isn’t what I -“</p><p>“I know,” she says again, but more gently. “And I know you don’t need fussing over, too. I suppose I just thought that needn’t be incompatible with offering you some  - help, or - oh, I don’t know.” She sighs, squeezing his fingers again. “Everyone keeps telling me I need to stop trying to do everything myself, and I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t pass the message along.”</p><p>“I’m not sure this is something anyone can help with,” Cullen mutters.</p><p>“I’m not entirely sure I agree,” she says, “but I think I may have actually made it <em>worse</em>, so clearly I wasn’t the right person for the job.”</p><p>“Not at all.”</p><p>“You’re sparing my feelings, Commander. There’s no need.”</p><p>“I’m not,” he says, and then he looks up at her finally. “Clearly, I’m not, or I wouldn’t have -“ He stops abruptly and looks away again.</p><p>She lifts the hand that’s still stubbornly gripping her fingers, and places it carefully on the desk in front of him, putting her hand on top in what she can only hope is a comforting way. Cullen looks blankly at his hand, as if only now becoming aware of it. “I alarmed you,” she says, “that was my mistake.”</p><p>“I can only imagine what you think of me,” he says quietly, more to the desk than to her. It breaks her heart a little just to see it. “I don’t want to be -“ He breaks off again with a grimace.</p><p>“Afraid of me?” she asks, against all her better judgement. Cullen just looks completely stricken, so she smiles weakly, and tries for a little humour instead. “I’m extremely fearsome, so I’m told. My enemies cower before me.” He doesn’t laugh.</p><p>“Is that what you think? That I’m afraid of you?”</p><p>“I think,” she says, with all the tact she can muster, “that you’re unwell, and I didn’t come here to make that worse with a metaphysical discussion.”</p><p>“Are you afraid of me?”</p><p>“Cullen,” she says helplessly, “as I said, I didn’t intend to draw you in to-“</p><p>He grips her hand insistently again and meets her eyes. “Are you?”</p><p>Linnea pauses for a moment, just looking at him. “I don’t think so. At least,” she amends, “not anymore.”</p><p>He grimaces. “Because you know I no longer take lyrium.”</p><p>“Because I know <em>you</em>,” she says, and is immediately embarrassed by the sincerity of it. She clears her throat. “I think most of Thedas is a bit afraid of me, Cullen, for one reason or another. I promise you I don’t hold it against you.”</p><p>“Awe and fear are different things.”</p><p>“Sometimes.” She raises an eyebrow at him. “Sometimes not.”</p><p>“I’m not afraid of you,” he says firmly, and she wants to believe it. She really does.</p><p>“Nor are you in awe of me, I shouldn’t think,” she says lightly, “I don’t think anyone who’s seen me dismount a horse directly into a water trough could possibly find me awe-inspiring.”</p><p>“Nonsense.” For some reason she’s more thoroughly embarrassed than if it had been a straightforward compliment. It’s absurd. </p><p>“Anyway,” she says, feeling like she’s waded far deeper into this than she ever intended, “I should leave you in peace.” She gives his hand one last squeeze, vaguely embarrassed that they’ve been in constant contact since he grabbed her, and retrieves her own hand before she’s tempted to get emotional again. “I think I should probably go and ingratiate myself with our poor ambassador.”</p><p>Cullen nods slowly, still looking at her. His hand twitches on the table. “Of course. The letter.”</p><p>“A moment of childishness,” she says sheepishly, but Cullen shakes his head.</p><p>“I don’t think so.”</p><p>“Stubbornness, then.” She looks at him with a small smile. “You might know something about that.”</p><p>To her relief, he smiles too. “I might.”</p><p>Linnea stands up, and taps the bottle on the table. “Drink this and try to get some sleep, would you?”</p><p>“I - yes.”</p><p>“It’s not a request,” she adds dryly. </p><p>“Of course, Inquisitor.”</p><p>“‘Inquisitor’, is it? I rather liked ‘Linnea’. Anyway,” she says hurriedly, hoping to draw attention away from <em>that</em> pathetic little slip up, “let’s talk tomorrow, when you’re hopefully feeling better.”</p><p>“Tomorrow,” he agrees, and he does tug the potion towards him, which is a promising sign. “Although you forgot to tell me how tired and dreadful I look.”</p><p>“Well, I didn’t want to labour the point,” she says, encouraged by the return of his sense of humour. “Tomorrow, then.”</p><p>She takes one last look at him before shutting the door carefully behind her, doing her best to avoid causing that horrible squeak again. He does look dreadful, but she’s no longer so sure she made it worse. </p><p>The heart wants what it wants, or so Varric is fond of saying. He uses it mostly as an excuse for all the idiotic things his characters do, and she’s doing much the same. But it’s true: her heart wants what it wants. She’s provided it with the emotional equivalent of a notarised list of reasons that it ought to desist - a technique that’s served her well in other areas of her life, at any rate - but yet it continues to ignore her cheerfully and enthusiastically. It’s getting exhausting trying to fight it when it’s this insistent, and so for just a moment, as she catches Cullen’s eye before the door shuts, she stops trying.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Good <i>grief</i>,  I can't believe this part came out at 19k. Clearly I've been brewing a lot more of this over the past five (oh god, f i v e) years than I even thought. This one is much more written by 2020 skogr than 2015 skogr, although I'm not sure how obvious that is!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. iii.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You’re jittery,” Varric says, in that sly way he has that means the object of his current attention ought to hastily make their excuses and get as far away from the conversation as possible. Unfortunately, owing to being horseback on a thin mountain path in the Frostbacks barely half a mile out from Skyhold, Linnea’s options are limited. </p><p>“I’m not <em>jittery</em>.”</p><p>“You’re jittery,” he repeats, “which is weird, because you didn’t seem jittery at all for the past few weeks while surrounded by <em>reanimated corpses</em>.”</p><p>“It’s called professionalism,” she says haughtily, despite her better judgement. “You should try it.”</p><p>“Ouch,” Varric says cheerfully, not looking at all deterred. “So these are delayed jitters, then? You’ve been saving them up?”</p><p>“A few fetid corpses in Crestwood doesn't even come close to the top of the list of things to make me jittery.”</p><p>“So you <em>are</em> jittery.”</p><p>“By the Maker,” she mutters, “can you please stop saying that word? It’s starting to lose all meaning.”</p><p>Varric grins. “Would you prefer fretful? Nervous? Restless? Crabby? <em>Yearning</em> -“</p><p>“Yes, <em>all right</em>,” she says loudly, and Varric just continues grinning. </p><p>“Unburden yourself, my dear Inquisitor,” he says magnanimously, “if walking corpses don’t bother you, then I for one would like to know what <em>does</em>.”</p><p>“Corpses <em>bother</em> me! I prefer my dead inanimate and preferably reduced to ash, thank you very much."</p><p>"In that case," Cassandra says wearily from behind them, "I strongly suggest you never visit my homeland."</p><p>"I'll take that advice too, Seeker," Varric says, "I hear Nevarra's lousy with walking corpses."</p><p>"That's… one way of putting it, yes."</p><p>"And I hear Ferelden is lousy with dogs," Linnea says glumly, "but all I've seen are walking corpses. First the Mire, then Crestwood -"</p><p>"Well," Varric says, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "there may have been a disappointing lack of mabari, but if you're looking for the next best thing - you know: stubborn, loyal, likes playing with big sticks - there's always the Commander."</p><p>She gives him a reproachful look. "<em>Varric</em>."</p><p>"Now, Inquisitor," he says gleefully, "don't try and tell me you're immune to his -"</p><p>"I used to want a mabari as a child," Cassandra says sheepishly, seemingly paying their back and forth little attention even as Linnea is visibly relieved at her interjection. "I hear they’re very intelligent.”</p><p>“Spending a few minutes with Hawke’s would entirely disabuse you of that notion,” Varric says - rather uncharitably, Linnea feels. She gets the distinct sense Varric just doesn’t like sharing the Champion’s attention with anyone, let alone a mere canine. “Although I <em>did</em> enjoy seeing the nobles’ faces when Hawke would show up with an unruly dog in tow.”</p><p>“Perhaps I should get one,” Linnea says, more gloomily than she intends, “bring it to Halamshiral and distract them from my many failings.”</p><p>“Oh dear,” Varric says, but far from the gleeful delight of moments before, he now sounds gentle. If anything, this is more dangerous than his teasing, but Linnea is as mollified by his kindly nosiness as ever. “Not looking forward to the next date on your social calendar?”</p><p>“Not as it stands, no, but you may be onto something. Don’t you think a mabari would liven up the imperial court?</p><p>“It’s common enough to bring mabari in Ferelden,” Cassandra says, “it might not turn so many heads as you would think; dealings with their neighbours is not so uncommon these days.”</p><p>Linnea sighs. “Well, there are my hopes dashed. Any alternative suggestions, Lady Seeker?”</p><p>Cassandra snorts, but answers with a mischievous humour that is rare for her and therefore especially delightful: “In Nevarra, the <em>mortalitasi </em>often provide skeletal servants to attend to the guests at prestigious events. I should rather enjoy watching the court accept crudités from such an attendant.”</p><p>“Excuse me, <em>skeletal servants?</em>”</p><p>“As I said, Master Tethras,” Cassandra says dryly, “if Crestwood was not to your liking then I would not recommend a trip to my homeland. My uncle keeps several such servants, I always detested them. Imagine being woken up each morning by those dreadful bony fingers drawing your curtains. It’s quite horrible.”</p><p>“Drawing your curtains? How fascinating,” Dorian says, without a trace of sarcasm. He’d complained the loudest and longest of them all about the sheer volume of corpses they’d encountered, despite also being the least revolted and most interested of their number, too. Linnea has a feeling it’s his way of keeping their spirits up, however counter-intuitive it seems. Even stranger: it works. As Dorian moans and wrings his socks out by the fire, it’s hard not to laugh. He’s a master of self-deprecating humour. “Tell me, Lady Cassandra, exactly what kind of tasks can these servants carry out? Drawing curtains suggests a dexterity I wouldn’t have thought possible -“</p><p>“Here we go,” Varric mutters, and Linnea grins as Cassandra dutifully lets her horse fall back into step with Dorian’s. She raises her eyebrows at Varric conspiratorially.</p><p>“I think she secretly likes talking about Nevarra.”</p><p>“You might be right,” Varric says, casting Cassandra an appraising look. “Don’t we all like talking about our hometowns, despite their faults?”</p><p>“What faults?” Linnea says, knowing it’ll make him chuckle. “Neither of ours have any.”</p><p>“Marcher solidarity: it’s a beautiful thing.”</p><p>“Until it isn’t,” she says, prompting a full-bodied laugh this time. “We’re a solid alliance as long as any outsiders are insulting us, and then we’ll eat each other alive, probably.”</p><p>“Well, don’t tell anyone I said this,” he says, leaning in as much as one really can while on horseback, “but I always preferred Ostwick to Starkhaven.”</p><p>“That’s because you’re a man of taste. Besides,” she adds, grinning, “it’s well known that when we <em>do</em> turn on each other, Ansburg is first.”</p><p>“And then Tantervale, the killjoys. Maker, it should be a crime to be that boring.”</p><p>“I could make that my next Inquisitorial decree, you know.”</p><p>“I’m fully in support of that,” Varric tells her, grinning widely, “but what would we do about the Commander?”</p><p>She doesn’t take the bait, well-versed as she is in Varric’s tactics, and rather thinks she does a decent job of casting him a bored look. “After that,” she says, ignoring the comment completely, “I’ll ban Orlesian balls, I think.”</p><p>Varric gives her one of those gentle looks again, and with Cassandra engaged in conversation with a rapt Dorian this time, she finds herself sagging a little in the face of it. It's not that she doesn't consider Cassandra a friend, or that she's particularly averse to opening up in front of her, but there's something there she'd scoff at if it was anyone else: she doesn't like Cassandra to see her moments of weakness. Vanity, maybe. A childish desire to impress someone she’s a little in awe of. Or perhaps it's just that she never wants Cassandra to ever doubt her instincts in letting Linnea turn from prisoner to ally.</p><p>Her relationship with Varric, however, is not nearly so complex, nor are their respective relationships with Cassandra all that different, either. Linnea remains convinced that he's horribly meddlesome, and she remains equally convinced he has a kind heart. Perhaps he couldn't really be either without the other, or at least he wouldn't be Varric. She endures the former because she values the latter.</p><p>"That really eating you, huh?" he says, lowering his voice. There's no such thing as a private conversation travelling with the caravan, not really - but it's close enough. "I've got to say, I'm a little surprised. I didn't think hobnobbing with nobles was exactly unfamiliar to you."</p><p>Linnea sighs. "I don't suppose it is. But..."</p><p>He waits patiently for a moment before prompting her. “But?”</p><p>“There’s just a lot riding on it, that’s all.” She tries to sound buoyant, but once more it comes out rather glum. “Some of the <em>rumours </em>I’ve heard -”</p><p>"The Orlesians like to sniff at Marchers," he says firmly, "but they like to sniff at everyone, and they'll know the Trevelyan name. I mean - <em>everyone</em> knows the Trevelyan name these days, but your family has been pretty well behaved in recent memory, even by Orlesian standards. I think they’ll have made a good impression, all things considered.”</p><p>“I’ll give you that,” she mutters, “my mother has certainly whipped them into shape.”</p><p>“I hear Ruffles has you brushing up on your Orlesian, too."</p><p>"Goodness knows why, seeing as how she's also quite determined I shouldn't use it." Linnea sighs, looking ahead to the gates or Skyhold with some trepidation. No doubt more preparations lie in wait for her return. "Honestly, I feel as though I can see Josie's hair turning grey before my eyes. The whole thing has her doing somersaults with stress."</p><p>"I hardly think you're the cause of all that, Inquisitor."</p><p>"I must take some of the blame," she says heavily, "and believe me: some rusty Orlesian and a somewhat respectable Marcher name are not the coup d'etat you seem to be implying they are."</p><p>"I never said it'd be easy," Varric says, shooting her an encouraging smile. "But it's my experience that even with a bad hand, a game you know the rules of is a hell of a lot better than a game you don't. It'll count for something, trust me."</p><p>"Maybe," she says, "or maybe knowing the rules just means you're painfully aware of how badly you're losing. I'd almost rather be blissfully ignorant."</p><p>"It's also been my experience," Varric says firmly, giving her a reproachful look, "that going into something with that kind of needless pessimism never ends well. Remember: our very own Lady Seeker must have frequented the court as Hand of the Divine, and if she knows any of the rules, she's absolutely determined to break them anyway."</p><p>Linnea has to smile at that, casting a look back at Cassandra. "I can only imagine."</p><p>"Have a little faith, Herald. Ruffles and Nightingale know what they're doing.”</p><p>“I couldn't ask for better advisors,” Linnea says, encouraged despite herself - although that’s before she sees that dreadful grin spreading back over Varric’s face.</p><p>“And then there’s Curly,” he continues, mock thoughtfully, “but this isn’t<em> quite</em> his arena."</p><p>"It isn't, no."</p><p>"I suppose he'll just have to wear that fancy new coat of his and give you something nice to look at," Varric continues, bland as anything but watching her with a wicked sharpness.</p><p>"I suppose he will," she says, just as bland. Then, finding she can't quite maintain the neutral expression for long enough, she mutters: "Stop it."</p><p>"Stop what?"</p><p>"You know what," she says, hardly moving her mouth. "Go write that sequel for Cassandra if you're yearning for something salacious."</p><p>"Am<em> I</em> the one who's yearning?" Varric asks, eyes wide and innocent. "Funny, I thought -"</p><p>"I'm not above begging," she says, more desperately than she's entirely comfortable with, but there it is. </p><p>"All right, then," Varric says, sharp edges smoothed over once more as he watches her carefully. "Reprieve granted, your Inquisitorialness. I can't bear to be the first to force our Herald to beg when even Corypheus couldn't."</p><p>She exhales through her mouth trying not to sound amused. "Thank you."</p><p>"Although," he says, just grinning when she glares at him, "even if I'm letting you off the hook, you know he'll be waiting for you." He gestures vaguely in the direction of Skyhold.</p><p>"The caravan," she says wearily, "waiting for the <em>caravan</em>. Not me."</p><p>True to his word, Varric doesn't press the issue, but he rides next to her with a satisfied grin for the rest of the way, and Linnea, well -</p><p>Linnea is decidedly jittery.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Cullen does indeed meet the arriving caravan, though he hadn't been standing around <em>waiting </em>for it, which is one less piece of ammunition for Varric, at least. As the gates swing open and they enter the bailey, she catches sight of him over by the stables and briefly, wildly, considers turning Pou around and galloping back into the Frostbacks. </p><p>She can't offer any kind of reasonable explanation for this. She doesn't want to avoid him at all; if anything, she wants to go over to him and take his face in her hands, to take stock of his pallour and his weariness and the circles beneath his eyes. Even though he had claimed to be recovered from his last bout of ill health, he had still looked a little ragged around the edges when she set off for Crestwood. She wants to see proof of his complete recovery with her own eyes, and to scrutinise it up close.</p><p>Of course, she can't do that for a multitude of reasons, not least because Varric and Cassandra would have front row seats to such an indiscretion. Admittedly, they have front row seats to an awful lot of her indiscretions, but this particular one she prefers to keep private.</p><p>She knows Cullen is at least doing better than he was, because she found a way to enquire casually after him in one of the ravens she sent back to Skyhold reporting on the situation from Caer Bronach. To Varric's great amusement she spent at least forty minutes agonising over how to enquire after his health without embarrassing him or giving away too much of her own very real, very pathetic worry. She's not sure she succeeded with the latter but she thinks she did manage the former, and that felt more important at the time. Leliana’s reply confirmed that he was in better health, and it didn’t seem to indicate any kind of curiosity on the spymaster’s part that Linnea was asking. After all, why wouldn’t the Inquisitor ask after the Commander? She’s overthinking this, no doubt.</p><p>And he <em>does</em> look better. He catches her eye for a moment with a half smile before turning to one of the stablehands, who start to bustle about purposefully as they lead their horses over to Dennett and his people. Linnea wrestles down that unsettling feeling that starts in her stomach, warm and dopey but yet oddly panicky, and absolutely doesn't look at Varric. </p><p>"Well, hello," Cullen says, warmly but a little stupidly, before taking the reins of Varric's horse and directing it gently towards the mounting block. Varric, as their shortest rider, has no interest in taking a smaller mount like Harding, but does have a very firm policy of being allowed his dignity when dismounting their generally rather large coursers. "I wasn't expecting you back today," Cullen adds, rather more businesslike, much to her relief. Even so, she notes the <em>‘I’</em> and not the <em>‘we’</em> that it would’ve been not so long ago.</p><p>"We made good time," Cassandra says, dismounting with her usual grace even in full armor. </p><p>"Turns out travelling is quicker when the roads aren't besieged by the undead," Varric adds cheerfully, making his own smooth dismount as Linnea hesitates. "Who knew?"</p><p>Cullen notices her hesitation and makes half a move as if to help her down from Pou which is, she finds, a prospect that both delights her and horrifies her. As much as she would love for him to take her hand and steady her waist with his other, she is suddenly certain that she'll do something excruciatingly embarrassing if he does. Hopefully it would just be maintaining intense eye contact a little longer than is appropriate rather than something truly dreadful like a wistful noise, but she absolutely can’t be sure, and doesn’t want to find out.</p><p>"If you're looking for the water trough, Inquisitor," Varric says, because he's <em>the worst</em>, "it's just over there if you want a quick dip." </p><p>She glares at him, vaguely aware of Cullen stifling a smile at the edge of her vision. "Hilarious," she mutters, "and only the third time you’ve made that same joke, as well - your restraint astonishes me, Master Tethras.”</p><p>“And your efficiency astonishes me, Inquisitor.” By the Maker, sometimes she wonders what Varric is like as an enemy if this is him as a friend. “Why waste time painstakingly cleaning your boots when you can just hop into the nearest water trough?”</p><p>She sighs at length. “I suppose I'll never live that one down."</p><p>"Nope," Varric says, dragging the word out with utter delight, and that seems to be all Cullen needs to close the gap between himself and Pou and offer a hand with impeccably chivalry. This is probably all part of Varric's plan, an anticipated outcome of him bringing up that ridiculous trough incident all over again, calculating that Cullen would jump obediently at the chance to save her dignity. It <em>isn</em>'t endearing. She refuses to let it be endearing.</p><p>"Really," she says weakly, feeling her resolve crumbling as she looks at his outstretched hand, "I'm fine, I - that's very kind of you -"</p><p>She relents and lets him help her lest her protestations seem excessive, grasping his arm and letting him take some of her weight as she hops down. Her weakness for this sort of mundane contact between them has been well established, embarrassing though it is, and this is no exception.</p><p>She thinks she handles it rather well, all things considered - helped along by the fact that his hand not supporting her arm only briefly touches the small of her back. She's still close enough to see the faint flush high on his cheeks and the way his mouth curves ever so slightly up, a smile she's sure is invisible to everyone but her. It would've been invisible to her once, too, but she knows him better now. She wants to trace it with her finger, or maybe kiss the corners and persuade a proper smile to surface. Or forget the corners; maybe she just wants to kiss him properly then and there and they can gawp all they like, because she’s the <em>Inquisitor</em> and she can’t outlaw Ansburg but perhaps she can do this. </p><p>Or maybe she just wants someone to dump a bucket of water over her head and tell her with stern compassion that she's an idiot.</p><p>Cullen pauses for the briefest of moments with his hand still on her elbow, and after they meet each other's eyes for another fleeting moment, she mutters her flustered thanks and he takes Pou’s reins, scratching the mare's nose with a more substantial smile that Linnea rather wishes was meant for her. </p><p>This was all <em>so</em> much easier before she had a fairly conclusive reason to believe he’s just as invested in this as she is. </p><p>“Pou, wasn’t it?” Cullen asks, and she bites her lip to stop the wild grin that threatens to escape upon hearing him say the name aloud. He even tries to shorten the vowel sound, in a weak attempt at honouring its Orlesian origin and Linnea's pronunciation. Of course, it sounds far more like its phonetic cousin in his accent, and by the self deprecating look in his face, he's well aware. </p><p>"It is," she says, willing herself not to laugh. </p><p>"And she dislikes gloves," he says, scratching the mare pointedly behind the ear with an ungloved hand. Beautifully on cue, Pou closes her eyes blissfully and tilts her head further towards him. </p><p>"Ah! You remembered."</p><p>"I - yes," Cullen says, still scratching Pou but looking a little abashed. He needn't be: she finds it horribly endearing. She's almost as besotted with that horse as she is with - well.</p><p>“You're in her good books now,” Linnea tells him with a grin, giving Pou a fond pat on the flank as a stablehand approaches with a wet sponge and bucket. “I think she needs shoeing,” she adds to the stablehand more than Cullen, and more for something businesslike to say than anything else. Dennet will no doubt check that sort of thing thoroughly, and she's no expert. </p><p>“We’ll take a look at her, ser.”</p><p>“Thank you.” Linnea turns back to Cullen again, caught between her suspicion that Varric is still watching curiously and the nagging worry that’s been lurking at the back of her mind the entirety of the past three weeks. She thinks about the way he'd been hunched over his desk not a month ago, and worry wins. “Cullen,” she says quietly, and he meets her gaze quickly, “are you -”</p><p>Of course, that’s when one of his soldiers rounds the corner breathlessly with something that requires his urgent attention, and Cullen has to make his excuses, even if the look he gives her is palpably reluctant.</p><p>Linnea isn't a believer in the small signs. If the Maker wants to communicate with her, then it won't be in the number of a certain species of bird perched on a branch, or finding a fallen log across her intended path, or even in the tea leaves at the bottom of her cup. If Andraste did choose her to be her Herald - and Linnea isn't always so sure that she did - then having the Fade chew her up and spit her out seems about the level of interference one could expect from a divine power. Something grand. Something just callous enough to remind you that your discomfort needn’t factor into a god’s plans. Something you couldn't miss.</p><p>Even so, she can't help but feel that the world is trying in a thousand subtle ways to gently redirect her misplaced affections, and perhaps she ought to take the hint. </p><p>It was all so much easier, she thinks again, before she knew exactly, precisely how it felt to have his hands in her hair as he kissed her.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Everything that led up to the kissing is all sort of a blur, looking back. She's not quite sure when they crossed that invisible line and it became something inevitable they were both rolling slowly towards, but the slope got steeper and steeper, and she eventually just let herself fall. </p><p>She remembers them walking the ramparts in awkward silence, half-heartedly trying to talk herself out of merrily taking a torch to their painstakingly built friendship. She remembers watching Cullen clearly build himself up into such a state of agitated nervousness about it that she couldn't bear to argue with herself any more. She remembers being interrupted briefly by official Inquisition business, another of those little not-signs that she refuses to acknowledge. </p><p>And she remembers the kissing, of course. </p><p>She's not sure how long they stood there, making a spectacle of themselves right there on the ramparts, but she came back to herself with a sudden jolt that startled Cullen as well. There was a brief moment where they just stared at each other in breathless confusion, but it was the unguarded expression he wore beneath that which really took her breath away. Her subconscious may have been frantically chanting <em>this is a mistake, this is a mistake</em>, even as she wound her fingers happily in his mantle and pulled him closer, but she couldn't see any such reservations in his face. Once he makes up his mind, it's practically carved in stone. It was quite something to see he'd made up his mind about her.</p><p>That stupid voice stopped chanting, just for a moment. His faith was enough for both of them.</p><p>She took his hand and pulled him through the nearest doorway, intending to have a serious and private discussion about - <em>discretion</em>, maybe, or propriety - something like that, but she's not sure any of that made it past her mouth. She's not sure her mouth did anything useful at all other than kiss him in that mortifying sort of way like she wanted to crawl inside his skin.</p><p>She's <em>never</em> been that person. It still makes wince to remember it. Back in the Circle, there was a dark corner in the library visible from her preferred working desk that was favoured by many for that sort of embarrassing kissing. Not sex, oh no - though Linnea fervently wished they'd take it to the nearest cupboard and just get on with it, they'd just <em>whisper</em> and <em>kiss</em> and <em>giggle</em> as she ground her teeth. She'd scrunch up her used parchment into makeshift projectiles when her irritation became too much to handle and she hoped to spur them on to just finding that damn closet.</p><p>But that was her now, apparently. She remembers whispering gushingly about how much she liked his <em>eyes </em>at one point, Maker's <em>breath</em>. It was as if her mind had suddenly, giddily decided that dignity was an all or nothing situation, and that she may as well shrug off all its trappings at once.</p><p>His eyes are a lovely brown. Up close they have a warmth that a more romantic soul than her would describe like gentle firelight. Be that as it may, it’s beside the point.</p><p>She'd chalk it up to months and months of being starved for physical contact, for soft touches, for almost any kind of intimate moment that isn’t scrutinised by half the continent. If that were the case, then surely the clock would have reset, surely she'd have it out of her system for another month at least, the itch thoroughly scratched.</p><p>But that is very much not the case.</p><p>She dragged herself away eventually, because the coward that she is, she only dared set this in motion before she was due to leave for Crestwood. In another unexpectedly sentimental moment, she cupped a hand to his cheek and told him gently to look after himself, and that they'd talk when she got back. What did he think that meant? What did <em>she</em> think that meant?</p><p>It should have been enough. It should've been easy to forget all about it, to spend three weeks doing what she does best, and not lie awake every night turning it over and over in her head from every possible angle.</p><p>Linnea failed thoroughly in every regard.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Her quarters in Skyhold are, quite frankly, ridiculous. If the entire fortress weren’t so vast that they haven't even nearly filled it yet, she would have insisted on turning them over for another use. As it is, insisting on repurposing them now would probably just seem performatively humble, which isn't the sort of thing the Inquisitor ought to be, as far as she can tell. </p><p>It's not that Linnea doesn't like her room; she relished the privacy of her own cabin in Haven, and having such an expansive wing so far away from the bustle of Skyhold is something she absolutely doesn't take for granted. Before the Conclave, she had never even slept in a room alone. Her nurse slept in a cot by her bed as a child, and Ostwick Circle was a prolonged exercise in living on top of one another, even when she was no longer an apprentice.</p><p>Unlike Ostwick, which retired early and rose early, Haven - or least the version of it that existed once when she was there - never really slept, and she was right in the centre of it. Even in the dead of night there was a fire burning and the muffled conversations of the night watch. Skyhold may be the same but Linnea is quite tucked away from it all, now. She supposes this is a privilege of her position.</p><p>She'd rather bite her tongue off than admit it and reveal another failing that stems from her <em>undesirable</em> background, but sometimes the silence and the remoteness is so overwhelming she finds it harder to sleep than if she were lying in the middle of the courtyard.</p><p>Tonight is one of those nights. She ought to be exhausted, after a week of travel, two more of fighting, and a hectic first day back in Skyhold, but she sits staring gloomily at the fire for an hour or more feeling lonelier and lonelier. She keeps her fire burning magically, of course, so there's not even a need for someone to bring fresh logs. Pending any emergency that requires the Inquisitor, the night is all her own, and she finds the idea suddenly not at all as pleasant as it should be.</p><p>She's not <em>yearning</em>, even though she can practically hear Varric narrating the scene dramatically as she sits there, chewing at her lip and wrestling with her stupid impulses. Next time Sera wants to pour custard all over Bianca, maybe she'll let her. She isn't the kind of person who <em>yearns</em>. </p><p>Nor is she kind of person to stare broodingly at a fire all night when there's a perfectly good alternative, so she laces up her boots and wraps a thick wool cloak over her shoulders, waving a hand distractedly in the direction of the fire to reduce it to embers that will glow obediently until her return.</p><p>It's late enough that the food and drink has all been cleared from the main hall, and most of their guests have made their way in varying states of sobriety to their quarters. A few remain in hushed conversation by the fire - presumably getting the <em>really</em> juicy gossip, if Leliana is to be believed. Tempting as it is to try and glean some personally rather than third hand somewhere down the line, Linnea nonetheless has no intention of becoming the subject of their speculation.</p><p>Rather than walk past them or draw their attention in any way, she takes a brisk right turn into Josephine’s office, with half a mind to take the stairs down past what she thinks of as her secret library, exit by the training yard, and head up and along the ramparts from there. It’s at this point that her plan becomes slightly less purposeful; now that she’s stood in Josie’s empty office in the dark, she’s less sure of herself. </p><p>What <em>is</em> her plan, exactly? Is she going to knock on his door, confidently assuming he’s still awake at this hour? What if there’s no answer? What if he’s actually <em>asleep</em>? What if she wakes him and he answers the door believing it's an emergency and not bothering to make himself decent, bleary-eyed and half dressed -</p><p>“Yes, <em>all right</em>,” she says aloud to the empty room and her over-eager imagination, passing by the fireplace and lighting the candles with a finger as she tries hurriedly to regroup.</p><p>It’s late. It must be into the second watch of the night. It’s certainly too late to be knocking on people’s doors, even if your particular reasons for knocking on these doors are less than professional. What she’ll do, she decides, is make her way to the Herald’s rest, which will no doubt be quieter than it often is, but still very much open for business. She’ll be able to look across to his office as she crosses the courtyard, and if she sees no light through the window, she’ll simply enter the tavern and ask for a nightcap to ward away her sleeplessness. She’ll neither risk disturbing a sleeping man nor make herself the subject of any scurrilous gossip.</p><p>She’s just about talked herself into putting this plan into action when the door to the War Room opens with a click, and she’s caught standing blankly in the middle of Josephine’s office in what is practically the dead of night by none other than the object of her nervous scheming.</p><p>“Lady Inquisitor,” Cullen says, a title she absolutely <em>despises</em>, except apparently in right this instant - and she’s hit with a strange rush of relief that is far more superstitious than she ever thought she could be. It’s a coincidence, of course, but it feels like fate is maybe, just <em>maybe</em>, smiling on her for just a moment. Cullen looks equally surprised to see her. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be awake.”</p><p>Linnea stays standing rather stupidly in the middle of the room, wishing there was some way she could pretend to have a purpose in being there, but perhaps fate isn’t yet feeling quite that generous. </p><p>“But you were wondering?” It’s the sort of thing one ought to sound sultry saying in a situation like this, probably, but she’s fairly sure she only manages to sound unsubtly hopeful. If she's ever sounded successfully sultry before in her life, then she's unaware of it. She'd never really considered it such a terrible loss until right this instant, but it would seem she's able to fluster Cullen easily even without it. </p><p>He stands just as awkwardly still halfway through the doorway. “Er - yes. I was looking for you, actually.”</p><p>“How convenient,” she says, trying not to grin too widely. Cullen is wearing what she’s come to think of as his off-duty clothes, and the missing armor is usually a sign he isn’t in formal Commander mode even when it isn't the middle of the night. He really was looking for her. “I was looking for you too, as it happens. It seems I didn't have to try too hard.”</p><p>That throws him all over again for some reason, and he clears his throat with a furrowed brow, shuffling the papers in his hands purposefully. “It’s quite late,” he says suddenly, as if it’s only just occurring to him, “but there were just a few - er, important matters that I thought -“ He shuffles the missives again. He really is a very awkward man, sometimes. It feels a bit like watching someone slip over repeatedly on a patch of ice, and you’re not sure whether to hold out a hand and end their suffering, or to just pull up a chair and watch.</p><p>In the end, she holds out that metaphorical hand. “How thorough of you,” she says, tilting her head to one side slightly and smiling at him. “I completely forgot to come up with an excuse for seeking your company.”</p><p>"Well, I -"</p><p>"I know being overly dedicated to your work is sort of your thing," she says teasingly, "but this is one particular occasion where admitting a lack of it is beneficial."</p><p>“This isn’t an excuse,” Cullen says impassively, and her heart sinks rapidly. “This is important Inquisition business.”</p><p>“Oh.” Linnea’s smile fades. “I see. What urgent matter is it this time?”</p><p>Cullen rustles the missive on the top of his pile officiously. “A very serious complaint from Lady Marcille regarding the conduct of our forces whilst driving demons out from her grounds -“</p><p>Linnea pinches her nose with a sigh. “Maker’s breath, what did they -“</p><p>“- as in their haste, they seem to have trampled her herb garden,” Cullen finishes blandly, and she drops her hand to stare at him.</p><p>“I'm sorry, her <em>herb garden</em>?"</p><p>“Her royal elfroot is ruined,” Cullen says solemnly, but this time she can see the corner of his mouth twitching. “Of course, something this urgent demands your immediate attention.”</p><p>“You were right to bring it to me, Commander,” she says, looking as grave as she can manage while her heart shoots joyfully back up to the giddy heights of moments before, the simple idiot that it is. “Obviously we can’t let this sully the good name of the Inquisition.”</p><p>“I didn’t think so,” Cullen says with a smile, and Linnea is fully prepared to keep embellishing and playing along for even longer, but he seems to have lost interest now it’s carried him over his initial awkwardness of their encounter. The papers hang loosely by his side as he takes a single, agonising step closer. “It <em>is</em> very late.”</p><p>“I couldn’t sleep.”</p><p>“I wasn’t having much success myself,” he says, and they both shuffle slowly across Josie’s office towards each other this time, as though compelled to meet, but completely unsure what they’ll do once they’re standing fully in front of each other. Linnea has a few ideas, though.</p><p>“I wanted to ask you before,” she says, wishing the candlelight was brighter and she could get a better look at his face, “if you’re feeling well?”</p><p>“I am, thank you.”</p><p>“When I left, you still weren’t looking quite your usual self,” she tells him apologetically, “I confess I was a little worried.”</p><p>Cullen winces visibly. “That’s the last thing you should be doing. As I’ve explained, Cassandra will oversee my condition and make the decision if it becomes necessary to -“</p><p>“Cullen,” she says firmly, “this was a personal worry, not a professional one.”</p><p>“I don’t want you to be worrying in either capacity,” he mutters, and drops his gaze. They’re close enough now that she can reach out and tilt his chin up until his eyes meet hers again, which she does.</p><p>“Too bad,” she says with mock severity, and smiles to soften it. “You don’t get to say you care about someone and then demand they don’t return the sentiment. That’s not how it works.”</p><p>“I - “ he says, looking a little nonplussed at how plainly she put it, she thinks. She’s just too tired to keep dancing around it, and too impatient to try being coy. “I’m asking you not to worry, not to stop caring about - that is, if you - I wouldn't want to assume that -”</p><p>“You really are a delightfully awkward man,” she says fondly, and he huffs sheepishly under her amused scrutiny. “No, really, please keep going. I’d love to see how deep you can dig this one before I take pity on you and pull you out.”</p><p>“In my defence, it’s very late,” he says dryly, “and I’m probably in need of a good night’s sleep, as you’re so fond of advising.”</p><p>She grins. “Then I should leave?”</p><p>“You’ll note I didn’t say that.”</p><p>“Oh no, Commander, don’t let me keep you,” she says, as solemnly as she can manage. “If you need your beauty sleep, then we can debrief at another time -“</p><p>He catches her hand as she turns as if to leave, and to her delight he pulls her closer even than they were before. It’s only because she is, quite frankly, a mage of exceptional ability and self control that the candles she lit don’t flare furiously and splutter out then and there, but such a display would reflect more accurately where she's currently at, emotionally speaking.</p><p>"Linnea," he says, and she hears him swallow into the space between them, his hand still clutching hers. For a moment she thinks he's lost his nerve at the last minute, and then there’s a messy rustle as he apparently fumbles and drops the papers from his other hand. She's about to offer to help pick them up only to find it was quite deliberate, and all the better to have both his hands free to gently frame her face as he kisses her.</p><p>She made it twenty seven years without kissing Cullen and managed just fine, and she’d repeated that over and over to herself in the three weeks since she <em>did</em> in an effort to try and crush the feeling that she’s no longer able to manage without it. This does nothing to dispel that embarrassing notion at all as she melts quite happily into the kiss.</p><p>As he had three weeks ago, he kisses her with such breathtaking sincerity that she’s reduced to something similar herself, which is new to her. She may have spent most of her life in the Circle and it may have been tantamount to a cage, but it's not as though as though she truly is a wide eyed innocent stumbling through a world of new experiences. She’s been kissed passionately before, she’s been kissed thoroughly before, but it’s the sincerity that must have been missing. It’s certainly the sincerity that makes her head spin.</p><p>She’s always known he was stubborn. She just can’t even begin to explain how he came to be stubborn about <em>her</em>, but there it is, as tangible as his hair between her fingers. </p><p>Linnea takes half an unsteady step back and nearly slips on one of Cullen's dropped papers, which is when they pull back slightly with sheepish expressions and seem to remember where they are.</p><p>"Important Inquisition business, was it?" she murmurs, and Cullen chuckles against her cheek.</p><p>"I didn't want to presume."</p><p>"Then for the avoidance of doubt," she says softly, "presume away."</p><p>Cullen kisses her on the temple and she feels woefully, confusingly unequal to this gentleness. "Consider it noted."</p><p>She holds his face in her hands and runs her thumbs along his cheeks, and along the slightly darker spaces beneath his eyes. "If you could please also note that I reserve the right to worry about you."</p><p>Cullen hums low in the back of his throat, which sounds enough like polite disagreement that she can't help but smile. "In that case," he says, "I'll try not to give you any reason to need to."</p><p>She returns the low hum with a dubious expression to match, and he smiles wryly too. She kisses him briefly again to stop herself saying something particularly heartfelt and stupid, and then pulls back to look at him.</p><p>"It's late," she says, newly apologetic, "and I didn't intend to keep you for too long, and - your papers -"</p><p>"It doesn't matter," he says, but they both drop to their knees and start gathering up the missives. Cullen glances towards the door briefly as he does so, and it's only then that Linnea finds herself remembering the conversation she intended to have with him last time. </p><p>"Perhaps we actually should debrief," she says reluctantly, handing her stack of gathered papers to Cullen as they both stand.</p><p>He frowns. "On Crestwood?"</p><p>She shakes her head with an amused smile. "On… this."</p><p>"This," he repeats cautiously, and she hates that she's made him look wary again. </p><p>"I only mean that I don't know what we - or <em>if</em> we -" The guarded look to his face only grows as she clumsily tries to get to her point, so she takes his face in her hands once more. "I'm not very good at this," she tells him solemnly, and a smile breaks through the wariness, to her relief. "I mean to say: our relationship seems to have become rather extra-professional lately."</p><p>"I had noticed that, yes." He can be so wonderfully dry when he's not tangling himself up in nervous knots, and the temptation to derail her serious conversation just to tease some more of that easy humour from him is hard to ignore, but she ploughs forward determinedly. </p><p>"I think," she says carefully, "I would like to keep those developments fairly private, if you don't mind."</p><p>It's Cullen's turn to look relieved. "Of course."</p><p>"I know that makes it sound like I'm ashamed or embarrassed or - well, it's nothing like that," she mutters, her cheeks growing warm in apparent contradiction, but Cullen just shakes his head. “And now I realise I’m making assumptions that our extra-professional activities are to continue, I’m not trying to put you on the spot -“</p><p>He smiles at her. “You haven’t.”</p><p>“As I said,” she says, still somewhat flushed, “I’m not very good at this.”</p><p>“At this?”</p><p>“Again, not to put you on the spot -” she says, feeling rather as though it’s actually her on the spot at present, “- at romantic entanglements, I suppose."</p><p>“Ah,” he says, and seems to digest the information for a moment or two. “I thought that Ostwick - forgive me, but in Kinloch -” He thinks better of the rest of that sentence but she can't help but grin from what she can glean of where it was going.</p><p>“Why is everyone so convinced that this is all mages did in the Circles? That we were so bereft of things to occupy ourselves with we just constantly leapt into nooks and crannies with each other?” She is struck with an even more delightful train of thought. “Or are you basing this on <em>your</em> experience in the Circle?”</p><p>“I didn’t mean that,” he says with amused exasperation, which isn’t exactly an answer. </p><p>“You know," she muses, "I do believe we’ve stumbled on the Chantry’s best kept secret. Why circles? No corners, nooks, or crannies for illicit liaisons. It’s genius, really.” </p><p>“You’d be surprised,” he says, which only renews her delight. “You’ve evidently never been in charge of hunting down apprentices trying to skip their classes.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t know.” She flashes him her best expression of wide-eyed innocence. “I never skipped any of my classes.” She says nothing about <em>illicit liaisons</em>, however, although all Cullen does to acknowledge that omission is raise an eyebrow. </p><p>“I know mages weren’t supposed to have relationships,” he says, not rising to her bait in the slightest, “but it wasn’t something that was generally enforced all that stringently, as long as no harm was likely to come of it. Not in Kinloch, anyway.” He takes an uneasy breath, the kind that she’s come to decipher as accompanying a careful omission of his time in Kirkwall. If you didn’t know, you could spend hours talking to him about his time as a Templar and come away with the conclusion he spent ten mostly peaceful years in Ferelden, having cheerfully skipped the Blight entirely. </p><p>“Ostwick was much the same.”</p><p> He ducks his head and looks up at her with an almost coy curiosity that has her biting back another grin. “Even though it wasn’t enforced, I imagine most still went to some effort to hide any relationship they might have had. I don’t know how common they really were.”</p><p>“Oh, common enough, I should think, if it was anything like Ostwick.”</p><p>He clears his throat. “Did you never -“</p><p>“Have a relationship?” she says bluntly, seeing as how it seems likely he’d dance around the question forever if she didn’t. “Not really. Would you have, if you were a mage?”</p><p>Cullen looks back to his feet with a wince. “I meant no judgement, not of you or of anyone else who -“</p><p>“You misunderstand me,” she says gently, and he looks up at her uncertainly. They’re on shakier ground again, but there’s nothing to be gained in shutting down conversations about their past. They’ve made it this far, haven’t they? “I meant - would you have pursued a forbidden relationship? It’s all very romantic and exciting in the abstract, but in reality? That always sounded terrible to me.”</p><p>Cullen looks at her a little helplessly. “I... suppose so.”</p><p>“Anyway,” she says, not wanting to dwell unnecessarily on the shutters that used to hang at every possible window of her life, and far preferring to return all the ways she is now free to fluster him, “Templars had no such restrictions.”</p><p>“Well,” Cullen says slowly, “no.”</p><p>She waits expectantly but when no further answer comes, she prompts, “No one special?” </p><p>“Not especially,” he mutters, and he rubs the back of his neck in a way that makes her think he’s genuinely uncomfortable rather than just embarrassed. “There may have been no restrictions, but…”</p><p>She guides the subject carefully to a less personal footing. “Was it common for templars to have relationships?”</p><p>“It happened, certainly, but I wouldn’t say that it was common. Maker knows where they found the time.”</p><p>“Too busy for romance?” she teases, and the beginning of a smile finally creeps across his face.</p><p>“Very much so,” he says gravely, “of course, I’m even busier now...”</p><p>“I can see that,” she says, matching his mocking seriousness and tapping at the letters still clutched in one hand, “and I’m flattered you’ve managed to find some time for me in-between all these horticultural emergencies."</p><p>He breathes out heavily in what could almost be a chuckle, and brings his other hand to rest lightly on the small of her back, nudging her closer only by the barest suggestion. She’s more than happy to take it. “Of course,” he says, far too earnest. </p><p>“Well,” she says, and they look at each for a long, quiet moment. There's still that little voice at the back of her head chanting that this is a terrible idea, but it's starting to lose some of its fervour. She can ignore the weak protestations easily enough when he's standing right in front of her and she can see the warmth in his eyes. They <em>are</em> a lovely colour.</p><p>There's a sudden noise outside Josie's door and they leap apart as several sets of footsteps and what sounds like the scrape of furniture being moved across a stone floor sets her heart beating unreasonably fast.</p><p>"Third watch," Cullen murmurs. </p><p>"It really <em>is</em> late," she says, and finds herself stifling a yawn apologetically. "I assure you it's the hour and not the company -"</p><p>"You should rest," he says, suddenly firm. "You had a long journey, and there's much to do tomorrow."</p><p>"Today, I think you mean."</p><p>"Well, yes," he says, with the faintest of smiles, "and all the more reason to rest while you can."</p><p>"Then I'll see you tomorrow," Linnea says, fighting back a second yawn. Maker knows he must be tired too, but it doesn't seem to infect him the way yawns usually do. </p><p>Cullen nods low enough that it's almost a bow, still with that ghost of a smile. "Tomorrow, Lady Inquisitor," he says, and she still hates that damn title. She just <em>also</em> sort of likes how it sounds when he says it like that, even when it's clearly a gentle dismissal. It shouldn't be seductive at all, except that he says it low and deferential and it does nice, strange things to her stomach. Which is a dreadful habit to be getting into, she scolds herself, when she's trying to stop her professional business and her extra-professional business from getting too muddled up.</p><p>She'd like to kiss him again, but they could go on forever like this if she turns back every time she has this thought, so she doesn't. She tries to content herself with the image of him in the candlelight, the healthy flush to his cheeks and the steadiness of his hands on her face. It's the reassuring picture she's been fretting over for weeks now, right in front of her.</p><p>After one final look, she slips out the door to the subdued bustle of the changing watch and the last of their guests finally being hustled to bed from the main hall. Cullen hangs behind, and the last thing she sees is him moving quietly around the room to extinguish the candles.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Linnea's vague hopes of leaving Skyhold again before they set off with their full retinue to Halamshiral are crushed quite thoroughly in very little time. This wouldn't normally make her quite so antsy, but Josephine's fretting is infectious, and even when Linnea manages to feel cheerfully unaffected by the idea of the Orlesian court disapproving of her, she can't bear the thought of letting Josie down.</p><p>So she learns the names and the faces and all the winding, convoluted connections between them, and she dutifully accepts both Vivienne's attentions and those of her tailor. She reluctantly unearths something of who Lady Linnea Trevelyan might have been had their paths not diverged so thoroughly, and she tries her best not to hate how horribly easy it is.</p><p>"Duke Cyril is our best bet," Linnea says, to nods and hums from Leliana and Josephine and nothing at all from Cullen. "I'm also told he enjoys a good Tethras, which might be completely useless knowledge but I‘m quite determined to bring it up in conversation nonetheless."</p><p>"Anything that allows for easy conversation is useful knowledge," Josie says, "and, of course, should he want a signed copy…"</p><p>Linnea catches Cullen's eye hoping to see that amused exasperation of his that she's so fond of, and he doesn't disappoint.</p><p>"Are you seriously suggesting we can leverage a member of the Council of Heralds with Varric's books?"</p><p>"Well, if it works..." Linnea grins at him. “You forget, Commander, we’re leveraging another with a reliable supply line of Antivan brandy.”</p><p>“I most certainly have not forgotten,” he says waspishly, and she rather thinks he’s milking his part as their obligatory curmudgeon today. She’s enjoying it thoroughly. “We’re practically inundated with requests for the same.”</p><p>“I have other suppliers I can recommend without giving away Duke Germain’s,” Josie says, “he’ll still be the envy of the court. Which reminds me, Inquisitor, we’ve had correspondence from a few of your relatives - forgive me, but is there some custom in Ostwick to do with collecting locks of hair that I’m unaware of? I’ve never known anything like it.”</p><p>“We do prefer our public figures bald, yes,” Linnea says, earning a snort from Cullen, “although, really - it’s usually only for separated lovers or deceased relatives. As I’m not the former I can only assume they’re preparing for the latter… which is a little insulting, actually. Can I trouble you to work your magic again, Lady Josephine?”</p><p>“You can,” Josephine says gently, “but I must ask - and I really do apologise for pressing you on this once more - is there a chance you would reconsider? I certainly will not allow you to become bald, but just a few locks…”</p><p>There’s an uncomfortable silence as Linnea’s grin fades and she tries to rearrange her features into an appropriate expression. “Who exactly is asking, Josie?”</p><p>“Your aunt Lucille, Lady Osher, Bann Trevelyan -“</p><p>If Linnea had been softening at the first two names, the last one sobers her right up. “My <em>father</em>?”</p><p>“Not his hand, I shouldn't think, but signed in his name.”</p><p>“Didn’t we already politely refuse my mother?”</p><p>“Impeccably politely.” Josephine sighs. “Perhaps too politely. Would you reconsider?” The look she gives Linnea is as apologetic and kind as she could hope for, and she hates, <em>hates</em> letting Josie down. “Some of your maternal family have also been in touch now they have word of the Inquisition’s presence at the Winter Palace. I’m afraid it will be much more difficult to refuse them in person.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, Josie,” she says helplessly, “I know it must seem like I’m digging in my heels, and I know it’s just hair, but I -“ There’s another silence, both Josephine and Linnea looking towards Leliana for her input, but for the second round of this particular discussion, she seems to have bowed out. She’s scanning another report with a politely blank expression.</p><p>“I’d really rather not unless it’s a diplomatic necessity,” Linnea adds miserably, “which, by your expression, I’m guessing it is.” She is met with apologetic silence. “In that case -“</p><p>“No,” Cullen says suddenly, and all three of them look up at him, even Leliana, who has stopped pretending that her attention is elsewhere. “It can’t possibly be diplomatically necessary.”</p><p>“Commander, with the greatest of respect -“</p><p>“Listen to yourself, this is <em>ridiculous</em> -“</p><p>“- it’s just a small thing, and you know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t -“</p><p>“- even if we lost the support of Ostwick entirely, whilst regrettable, it wouldn’t represent a great political loss by any means -“</p><p>“- the best option for us diplomatically, especially as they are her family -“</p><p>“- we <em>already</em> ask so much of her,” Cullen argues, and Linnea just looks between the two of them with some surprise. It’s been some time since they devolved into a conversation about her in the third person, but she feels quite invisible in a way that’s become unfamiliar. “We ask her to risk her life on a <em>daily basis</em>, and now we’re even proposing to take her <em>hair</em> when she’s not even willing, for pity’s sake, to give to people who can’t even be bothered to enquire after her when it’s not politically motivated -“</p><p>“That’s enough,” Leliana says mildly, but instead of looking at Josie or Cullen she’s looking straight at Linnea with a curious expression. For some reason, Linnea’s cheeks feel quite warm. “Cameos are quite popular in the Marches, are they not?”</p><p>Linnea finds her voice again. “I think so.”</p><p>“It would be hard for any recipient of an item of fine craftsmanship to feel too slighted, I think. I know just the person to contact to have a select few pieces made.” Leliana taps her bottom lip thoughtfully. “There is <em>some</em> precedent in Andrastrian scholarship for considering the body of a prophet sacred until death, I think there’s something there we could use. I’ll ask Mother Giselle. What do you say, Josie?”</p><p>“If you can source the lockets,” Josephine says, with no little relief. “I am happy to move forward with this.”</p><p>“And Linnea does have a lovely profile,” Leliana adds, still giving her that oddly piercing look, “I think you’ll make a striking carving.”</p><p>“You’re too kind,” Linnea says warily, trying not to sound either too suspicious or too sheepish - although she is very much both - but Leliana turns her attention back to Josephine and Cullen.</p><p>“A most personal keepsake for your family,” Josephine says warmly, “I’m sorry to have pressed -“</p><p>“Not at all,” Linnea assures her, half of her attention still on Leliana, who’s waiting for Cullen’s response. He doesn’t seem inclined to give one, however, so she turns away with a raised eyebrow.</p><p>“Until tomorrow, then,” Leliana says, and with one last look at Linnea, she holds the door open for Josephine with a half smile that is, as many of Leliana’s smiles are, rather dangerous looking.</p><p>Linnea lets out a breath to find Cullen still at the other side of the table making a fairly feeble pretense at shuffling through reports. Even as they find more half-moments to make their own, he still seems to need an excuse, however flimsy. </p><p>It turns out they really both are <em>far</em> too busy for romance. She can count on one hand the number of times they’ve had even ten minutes to themselves in the past few weeks. She’s no less busy today than she is any other day, but they’re away from prying eyes, and he’s clearly fussing about with the reports in the hope that she’ll take the opportunity that’s fallen so neatly into their lap.</p><p>She pads around the table softly and places her hand decisively on top of the pile of papers he’s doing very little of substance with, and he looks up at her with an expression that is just a little more worried than she was hoping for.</p><p>“Cullen?” Her own smile fades. “Is something wrong?”</p><p>He shakes his head and then seems to rethink it immediately, and sighs. “There’s nothing wrong, it’s just - I’m sorry.”</p><p>“You’re sorry?” Linnea is careful to keep her voice steady and serious, Cullen can baulk at poorly timed levity, which is unfortunately one of her specialities. “For… nothing being wrong?”</p><p>“For how I behaved,” he mutters, “you can speak for yourself, and you don’t need me to - well.”</p><p>“There’s no need to apologise. Before your objection I was feeling rather press ganged, actually, if it helps.”</p><p>“A little,” he admits, “that’s why I - well, I’m not sure I was being... entirely professional.”</p><p>“Do you need to be?” She keeps her hand on top of the papers, watching him closely. “I don’t think it’s possible to be entirely professional all of the time. I should think I’m a particularly abysmal example of that, actually. You’ve seen me completely fail to maintain professionalism on many occasions.”</p><p>“Perhaps,” he says, half-defensive, half-deflective, but before she can expand further he’s taken a step closer and placed his hand on top of hers, looking at her intently with all traces of self-recrimination gone, at least for now. “Are you feeling particularly professional right now?”</p><p>“Um,” Linnea says, suddenly inarticulate. She wouldn’t have guessed he was capable of being this direct only a few months ago - in fact, she thinks fervently, she would have actively bet large sums of money <em>against</em> it. He's clearly enjoying her sudden speechlessness, and there's a crooked smile starting on his face. “Oh, no,” she says eventually, finding her tongue. “Not professional at all. Very… unprofessional, actually."</p><p>And there <em>is</em> something wildly, deliciously unprofessional about kissing him here, in the War Room. It probably says something about her she's quite this thrilled about it, but that's something to examine at another time. Maybe never; why pick apart something that works? Right now, she's preoccupied entirely with removing his gloves as his mouth is distractingly warm on hers.</p><p>Like horse, like rider, Dennet says, though he probably didn't mean quite like this. Pou rejects gloved scratches and Linnea is starting to do something similar. She's always pulling his gloves off impatiently and Cullen's always indulging her - insomuch as they've had time to build up a routine, anyway. It isn't even a precursor to anything more risque than kissing, she just likes to feel his hands even in all the least exciting ways. They're always cold from the lyrium withdrawal, but there's a warmth in them against her skin nonetheless, at least in her mind. She's probably just being embarrassingly romantic about it. Thank the Maker he never asks, and obediently lets her tug at each finger methodically until they slide off easily. </p><p>"Ahah," she says triumphantly against his mouth, and feels the shape of his smile before he kisses her again, his gloves discarded on the floor. He weaves one hand in her hair obligingly and she tries to curl her own hand around the back of his neck, defeated somewhat by his mantle and the steel of his armor chest piece.</p><p>He walks her backwards into the table and she hits it with a gentle thud. </p><p>"Sorry," he breathes, steadying her by the waist as he reaches out with his other hand to stop a report and several steel markers sliding onto the floor. He really does apologise a lot in his personal life for a man who doesn't seem to be all that aware of the concept in his professional life. </p><p>“You make a very compelling argument,” she says, and catches that exasperated amusement on his face again, although it’s <em>definitely</em> for show this time, “but I’m unclear on a few of the finer details, if you wouldn’t mind going over them again -”</p><p>He’s not inclined to play along, generally, but he can still take a hint. It’s easy enough to see what she’s angling for, and after he places the markers back in their correct positions on the table with a thoroughness that is definitely designed to frustrate her, he’s happy to oblige.</p><p>If there’s one good thing about the lack of time they’ve had to themselves since kissing was on the cards, it’s that Linnea can pretend she wouldn’t be so completely hopeless around him if they only had the luxury of being leisurely. She knows she won't be missed for another half hour or so, but there's no knowing what appointments Cullen has to keep, and she's not about to waste time asking him. That could be ten precious seconds down the drain. </p><p>Instead, she kisses him with her head blissfully and completely empty of anything that isn't the attentive placement of his ungloved hands tangled in the hair at the back of her neck, and the way he's shifted so it would be so very easy for him to move one leg just a few inches to slide it between hers. Unintentional, perhaps, given how gentlemanly he's been thus far. But then again, he already has her backed against the table -</p><p>They don't hear the door open, but they <em>do</em> hear it shut with a click that sends a genuine shiver of horror down Linnea's spine. Cullen's hands drop abruptly as he takes a step back, and she grabs at the table desperately both for balance and just for something to ground her.</p><p>"I can see I’ve interrupted something," comes Leliana’s amused voice, and Linnea isn’t sure if the unexpected intruder being the spymaster makes it worse or better. The promise of discretion but the certainty that it comes at a price. She can’t bring herself to look either Leliana or Cullen in the eye, and so settles for staring resolutely at the wall behind him. </p><p>“I think I’m supposed to say this isn’t what it looks like,” Linnea says weakly, “but I think it might be, er, pretty much exactly…” She trails off rather than finish that pathetic little sentence, and tries instead for her best Inquisitorial voice. “Is there something we neglected to address in our last meeting?”</p><p>“Not at all! I merely forgot my quill,” Leliana says brightly, which patently isn’t true, Linnea hasn’t seen her write a thing in any of their meetings, “if I could trouble you -“ Leliana gestures to their feet, where a quill Cullen didn’t manage to catch has fallen to the floor. Linnea closes her eyes to a brief and satisfying vision of strangling their spymaster, opening them to find Cullen has reached down to retrieve the offending quill and is holding it towards Leliana with a glare. </p><p>She takes it with a smile that is far, far too wide, and then just <em>stands</em> there looking at them both.</p><p>“Yes?” Cullen says shortly, and when Linnea chances a look at his expression he looks merely annoyed. She’s encouraged by this, although she still remains convinced that of the two of them, she was the one in the far more embarrassing position. Cullen still seemed very self possessed, but she was very much caught up in the moment. She wants to slide quietly under the table when she conjures up the image of what Leliana walked in on. Varric likes to crack jokes about not letting Lady Nightingale get any dirt on you, but they’re not entirely jokes. Linnea feels that rising sense of horror once more. </p><p>“Oh, nothing,” Leliana says, twirling the quill airily in one hand. “I was just wondering if this is a new development, or…?”</p><p>“New enough,” Linnea tells the door behind her faintly, when it becomes apparent that this conversation can’t be avoided and an answer is required. </p><p>Leliana hums in a way that could be amused or disapproving or indulgent or any number of wildly different things, it’s impossible to tell. “I didn’t know,” she says mildly, and again, this could be any of the above, so Linnea tries to keep her own expression equally noncommittal. “I’m not entirely surprised, of course, but I hadn’t thought you’d quite got to the stage of -” Leliana regards them both with a sudden frown. “Josie can’t cope with this, not now.”</p><p>“Excuse me?” Linnea finds that indignation is a wonderful distraction from being embarrassed, and she would pay large amounts of money, perhaps even extravagant amounts, to never have to respond to ‘<em>I’m not entirely surprised, of course.</em>’ There’s absolutely no dignity to be had in the vaguely dismissive way Leliana said it. “I’m sorry, is the ‘<em>this</em>’ that you’re referring to here our personal business? In which case, I’m not sure that Josie being able to cope or otherwise really comes into it.”</p><p>Leliana’s expression is clearly decipherable for the first time. It’s pitying - a soft and sympathetic pity, but pity nonetheless. “You’re the Inquisitor,” Leliana says in a kindly enough tone, but her meaning is quite clear. “Josie is beside herself with arranging everything for Halamshiral, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. I think discovering another political liability might actually stop her sleeping at <em>all</em>.”</p><p>Linnea bristles. “A political liability?” </p><p>“Surely you know this.” Leliana seems to have effectively cut Cullen out of this particular discussion, and he doesn’t protest, staring stonily ahead. “Many of the introductions Josie has planned for you rely on your unattached status.”</p><p>“You can’t be serious, surely that’s - by the Maker, it’s not as though she’s aiming to marry me off, so what does it matter?”</p><p>“Whatever we intend is immaterial. The Game and its players draw their own conclusions.”</p><p>“You can’t be serious,” Linnea says again, indignation draining away into a familiar dismay. “Well, it’s not as though I need to correct their assumptions, is it? They can think what they like. It doesn’t matter how - how available I truly am -“ She glances across at Cullen anxiously, because aside from brief mentions of romance and unprofessionalism, it’s not as though they’ve <em>talked</em> about this, they barely get five minutes alone together, and clearly they’re incapable of using those for <em>talking</em>, but he doesn’t look at her - “Surely they don’t actually think I’m looking to get <em>married</em>?”</p><p>Leliana’s gaze doesn’t reveal any of the shared amusement she’d hoped to see. “Why shouldn’t they?”</p><p>“What?” Linnea can’t cope with this. Her poor brain just cannot cope. It emptied itself blissfully in the pleasant escape of kissing Cullen and not thinking once about all her responsibilities, and now it’s being dragged back down to reality, and she absolutely can’t cope. “For a start, because I spend most of my time closing rifts and killing demons?”</p><p>“You are conflating marriage with home making, I think,” Leliana says, “rather than a political alliance.”</p><p>“I’m a mage!”</p><p>“You’re the Inquisitor.”</p><p>“This doesn't make any sense,” Linnea insists weakly, looking again to Cullen and finding his expression closed off and inscrutable. She wishes he’d just look at her. It’s overwhelming being the sole focus of Leliana’s firm guidance and pity - the pity most of all. </p><p>“We’re a powerful ally, none more powerful than the Inquisitor herself. What is so nonsensical about that?”</p><p>Linnea pinches the bridge of her nose tightly. “All right, point taken. But if it’s all just deliberately vague so they can think they have a chance of securing that alliance, then what does it matter what my personal business is?”</p><p>“Forgive me for saying so, Inquisitor, but that sort of naivety will only trip you up, especially once we reach Halamshiral.”</p><p>Linnea closes her eyes briefly again with fresh mortification, exactly the type that’s been haunting her since she first woke up in chains in Haven. Her voice sounds very distant, somehow, when she says with eerie calm: “Would you mind elaborating on that?”</p><p>“The Empress herself has sought to make a beneficial alliance in the past, Duke Remache was a serious suitor here for some time - we’ve talked about this, of course. There won’t have been anyone in the Empire more inclined to be discreet than Celene, and yet still the rumours reached us of her relationship with Briana.” Leliana shrugs. “I have many excellent agents in my employ who go to great lengths to procure valuable secrets. This was not one of them; we found it easily.”</p><p>“Yess, but all eyes are on the matter of Orlesian succession.”</p><p>“And all eyes are on you, Inquisitor.” Leliana is still twirling the quill that she never used, and Linnea wants to knock it out of her hands. “Do you know why we received Comtess de Blanchet recently? She overheard Lady Vivienne’s tailor discussing an order for the Inquisition in their storefront in the capital, and was so impressed to find you’re a woman of taste, she had to visit immediately and see it for herself. Yesterday, the gossip after dinner revolved mostly around the fact you were spotted in the tavern in deep conversation with Dorian, it was remarked upon that you didn’t leave until well into the first watch, and instead of heading to the main hall, you disappeared upstairs -“</p><p>“You’ve made your point,” Cullen says suddenly in clipped tones, as Linnea feels the colour draining from her face. “She never asked for this.”</p><p>Leliana’s smile is very melancholy. “Who would?”</p><p>“I -“ Linnea starts, and then takes a breath to center herself. It doesn’t work. “All right. What are you - are you suggesting that we -“ She can’t bring herself to finish the sentence. </p><p>“I’m saying nothing more than you must tread carefully, Linnea. That is all. I think you’re very sweet together, actually.” Leliana smiles, this time clearly indulgent. “I had my suspicions quite some time ago -“</p><p>“And what about Josie?” Linnea says loudly, not inclined to accept any good natured teasing so close on the heels of having her naivety highlighted and any semblance of a personal life dissected quite so callously. </p><p>“Oh, poor Josie, she’s juggling so many things and doing so wonderfully, but she just can’t see the wood for the trees at the moment.” Leliana sighs. “I don’t wish to tell you what to do when it comes to matters of the heart, but I am here to advise you, am I not? This is my advice: don’t bring this to Halamshiral, and don’t let it slip through the cracks, either.”</p><p>“So you advise that I should lie to Josephine?”</p><p>“No more than you were lying to us both a mere twenty minutes ago,” Leliana says, raising an eyebrow. “A tactful omission is not a lie, and it needn’t even be an omission: don’t bring this to Halamshiral. That is my advice.”</p><p>“We ask too much of her,” Cullen says tersely, still not looking at Linnea. “We expect even more.”</p><p>“‘We?’” The look Leliana gives him is characteristically piercing, and he looks away with an angry flush to his cheeks. “I don’t relish giving you this advice, Inquisitor, please don’t misunderstand me.”</p><p>“I know,” Linnea says, feeling as though she’s aged about a hundred years in the past few minutes. “I always appreciate your - candor, Lady Nightingale.”</p><p>“You know that I don’t relish asking this either, then,” Leliana says calmly, “but are there any particular channels of gossip I should be watching -“</p><p>“No,” Linnea says quickly, and then looks across at Cullen again. He shakes his head imperceptibly. “Nothing like that,” she says with more confidence, though she’s not entirely sure she believes it herself. She’s so fervently ready for this conversation to be over that she’s not sure she <em>cares</em> either way. </p><p>Leliana nods graciously. “Of course. Well,” she says rather more briskly, “I should return to work, now I’ve found my quill…” To her credit, she doesn’t so much as blink as both Cullen and Linnea level an unimpressed stare at her, though she does excuse herself with another bland smile, shutting the door behind her with a click that sounds terribly final.</p><p>Cullen still doesn’t look at her, rubbing his thumb and forefinger on his temples with his eyes half closed. His other hand, still ungloved, is steepled on the table, the ends of his fingernails white where he’s leaning his weight heavily onto them. </p><p>Linnea doesn't know what to do with herself. She runs her right hand through her hair agitatedly and lets the hand with the Anchor hang limply at her side. To think she’d spent so much time worrying that their past would turn out to be the insurmountable obstacle that she hasn’t even properly considered their present. To think she spent twenty seven years perfecting the art of not caring for the things she couldn’t have, only to find that a few months of freedom have undone it all. </p><p>And yet - is this freedom? Is that really what this is?</p><p>“Please say something,” she says miserably, “because I’m really not sure if I should laugh or cry, to be perfectly honest.” Cullen finally turns to look at her, and her stupid, traitorous tear ducts seem to gearing themselves up to make the decision for her. She clears her throat and tries to sound amused. “Either way, I can guarantee hysterics.”</p><p>“I -“ Cullen starts, and that one, uncertain syllable is all she needs for her heart to sink. She looks at the table rather than his face, dreading what comes next. “I don’t -“</p><p>In the ensuing silence Linnea worries at the inside of her cheek with her teeth until she tastes blood. </p><p>“I don’t think I much care for Orlais,” he mutters eventually, and she drags her gaze back to him with a start. His expression is still closed off, but his eyes have something else to them, something stubborn and familiar. She lets out a breath and holds her hand out towards him, only slightly raising it from her side. He could ignore it if he wanted, but he doesn’t. His fingers fit neatly between hers as he takes a step closer.</p><p>She smiles unsteadily but broadly; laughter it is, then. “I don’t think I much do, either,” she says, and there’s a small twitch of his lips that’ll do for a smile of his own. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is only half of the third part I had planned, I hit a bit of a Pandemic Wobble™ and realised that torturing myself just so my chapter titles would be nice and match-y Chant of Light quotations was... unnecessary stress to put on myself for absolutely no reason whilst living on a dumpster fire of a planet when I'm just trying to find a little self indulgent joy. So, here it is!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. iv.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I try to stay away from this sort of idiocy but even I couldn't miss that a certain voice actor has been Back At Their Shit Again and I just want to be clear: fuck that guy!! I completely understand that others might feel differently but the more gross nonsense he comes out with, the more determined I am to rub my nasty little nonbinary hands all over Cullen - so, yeah: fuck him!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“If I have to sit next to Marquis Boissonade again,” Linnea says under her breath, “I will absolutely stab him with my fish knife.”</p><p>Dorian snorts behind his glass of wine. “You do realise that’s the bluntest one, yes?”</p><p>“I’m aware.”</p><p>“...I see. May I ask what he’s done now to warrant further threats of violence?” Dorian gives her a significant look over the top of his glass. “Bearing in mind that Lady Nightingale can undoubtedly read lips, and is looking right this way.”</p><p>“Good, I think she ought to know. I <em>will </em>stab him.” Linnea is sure to form each word deliberately, though she doesn’t raise her voice. Dorian grabs her by the elbow and rotates her hurriedly so she’s facing away from the general bustle of the room. </p><p>“All right,” he says, in placating tones, “I’m sure he deserves it, but - and I can’t believe it’s <em>me</em> advocating for this, the world really has gone topsy turvy - if we could make it through this particular Orlesian soirée without a political incident, I think it’d be to the benefit of everyone. Which includes,” he adds with a grin, “avoiding assassination myself, presumably from Leliana if she feels I’ve been a bad influence on you. Although - for the record - a fish knife really isn’t my style.”</p><p>“No? I’m open to suggestions.”</p><p>“My best suggestion is that we check the seating arrangement and cause a little administrative chaos before resorting to silverware-based violence.” Dorian keeps a polite grip on her elbow as he guides her across the room. “Failing that, let’s hope the main course consists of tougher meat. You could really do some damage with something serrated.”</p><p>Linnea perks up a little at this. “There’s a seating plan?”</p><p>“Nothing so gauche as a diagram, I shouldn’t think.” Dorian gestures at the table ahead of them. “But there will be name cards - that largest table will be yours, I imagine.”</p><p>“They’ll notice if we just start moving them around, won’t they?”</p><p>“Have a little faith,” Dorian says, pressing a hand to his chest as if wounded. “This is my area of expertise.” He casts her a sideways look. “So, what exactly did the esteemed Marquis do to -“</p><p>They’re waylaid halfway across the hall by Vivienne, with three equally well dressed people gathered around her that Linnea presumes are the Loyalists she’d promised to meet at this event. She fixes her best Inquisitorial smile on her face - friendly, but a little cool and distant, as she’s found that she can manage that in lieu of actually looking stern or impressive - and greets them each in turn with half an eye on Vivienne as she does so. Vivienne grants her a small, private smile that at least reassures her she hasn’t completely bungled it. </p><p>“Lord Dorian of House Pavus,” Dorian says graciously, making his own introduction before Vivienne can either do it herself or skip him entirely. “Circle of Vyrantium. It’s always a pleasure to meet my Southern brethren.”</p><p>Linnea practically holds her breath at the expression on Vivienne’s face, but as always, Dorian knows exactly how far his own charm can get him - and this apparently extends even to Vivienne’s chosen Loyalists. Linnea had thought he was hamming it up a bit too much when he showed up in an outfit that can only be described as ‘irrepressibly Tevinter’, but once again, he’s the better judge of the two of them. It’s delightfully asymmetrical as usual, with his one covered arm boasting an absurdly large shoulder pad and dramatically sweeping cloak that comes in at his waist on the other side. It shouldn’t work, but it does. There’s enough snake themed jewellery on him to sink a ship, he’s ringed his eyes with a dark brown, and his moustache has been waxed into two impeccable points. </p><p>Far from being the liability that Vivienne and many others think he is, this is absolutely Dorian pulling out all the stops to make <em>her</em> life easier. He’s playing a part that he enjoys and hates in equal measure, and she’s touched to realise that it’s all for her benefit. </p><p>“Lord Pavus,” the tallest one says, and then even lets out a laugh that is practically a giggle - a refined giggle, but a giggle nonetheless. Vivienne rolls her eyes. “I was surprised to hear that an Imperial Magister has joined the Inquisition's cause, I must admit.”</p><p>“I’m afraid I’m not quite a Magister,” Dorian says, impeccably apologetic though Linnea knows that he despises going over this distinction with Southerners, “but merely an <em>altus,</em> as we would say in my homeland; my father holds our family’s position in the Magisterium. It’s my honour to support the Inquisition and to represent my countrymen. The fate of Thedas is the concern of us all.”</p><p>“Well said, Lord Pavus,” another says, and there’s an approving murmur. Linnea has to bite back a grin to see him pulling this off so smoothly, not least because of the expression on Vivienne’s face. She’s appreciative, of course, but equally exasperated. “Although I think, perhaps, you do not speak for <em>all</em> your countrymen?”</p><p>“The Inquisition seeks out many different points of view, of course,” Vivienne says firmly, “it’s beneficial to be acquainted with even those views you have no intention of lending real credence to. I’m sure you can see the logic of such an attitude.”</p><p>“But of course,” Dorian says brightly, before either Linnea has a chance to wince at Vivienne’s words or her companions are able to respond. “That’s precisely why I came south!”</p><p>Even Vivienne laughs merrily at that, and then Dorian seamlessly makes their excuses as Linnea promises to meet them again before their time in Halamshiral comes to a close, and he’s once again guiding her across the hall, his cloak billowing as he spins them back towards the seated area. </p><p>“I’m not sure I remember any of their names,” Linnea says wearily. “My head can’t take any more.”</p><p>“You’re doing marvellously,” Dorian says loyally, “now, let us find where that dreadful man’s assigned seat is -“</p><p>Linnea looks up then to gaze across the room, to see if any eyes are watching them, but her own are drawn to Cullen lurking stiffly by a marble column, as if by standing very still and silent beside it, he can somehow blend into it and go unnoticed. </p><p>He’s wearing his Josephine-endorsed coat and it’s every bit as well-made and flattering as she’d promised. With his carefully - nervously, more likely - brushed hair and his uncharacteristically ornate outfit, he looks almost like a rather somber oil painting as he stands immobile and neatly in front of the beautifully carved column. Linnea can practically see the title engraved on a little gold plaque beneath him: <em>portrait of a handsome but miserable man in candlelight, artist unknown. </em>She’s quite certain she’s seen similar things hanging in the private collections of the various nobles she’s been trying desperately to charm this past week. </p><p>She’s about to make a quip to this effect to Dorian when she sees the Marquis and his odious friends making a beeline for the Inquisition’s handsome but miserable Commander, and grabs Dorian's arm instead.</p><p>“Maker’s breath, should I rescue Cullen?”</p><p>“He’s a big boy,” Dorian says distractedly, “if he wants to mope then I say we let him -“ She tugs on his arm again, and Dorian spots Boissonade now right by the column. “ - <em>kaffas</em>, yes, I dread to think -“</p><p>“- but the name cards -“</p><p>“I’ll work my magic,” Dorian says, “hopefully not literally, of course - please rescue that poor man, I can’t bear a repeat of the ceremonial armor incident -“</p><p>Linnea doesn’t need to be told twice, setting a quick pace across the hall that she hopes reads as imperious rather than desperate. She’s half ashamed to admit that she’s been enjoying letting Josie and Vivienne and anyone else who cares to play at dressing her up in various Inquisitorial finery. She couldn’t bear it all the time, of course, but for a month she can find a slightly sheepish pleasure in it. This evening's outfit is one of Vivienne’s choices, and if the political implications of the similarities with Madame De Fer’s style are concerning, then that’s overridden somewhat with how deliciously the tails of her long jacket swish out behind her. The main body of the coat is boned quite severely, which gives her excellent posture, the high and stiff neck equally encouraging her to hold her head rather more regally than she is used to. Her boots too make a satisfying clack as she strides across the marble tile. </p><p>It is, perhaps rather unfortunately, the kind of outfit that makes her feel entirely capable of gutting Marquis Boissonade with a fish knife with impeccable style. </p><p>“I must congratulate you on your recent progress with Griffon Wing Keep, Commander,” Boissonade is saying as Linnea glides into the space between him and Cullen with a steely smile. “We have all been watching the Inquisition’s military success with much interest.”</p><p>“Oh,” Cullen says, as wrongfooted by the apparent praise as Linnea. He gathers himself fairly quickly. “I - thank you, Marquis. Despite the challenges we met as part of -“</p><p>“I was very dubious when I first heard of your appointment, of course,” the Marquis continues brashly, “I think I speak for us all.”</p><p>“Very much so,” the aggressively moustachioed man to his left says. “And one still does wonder why a more appropriate replacement wasn’t found when your forces became more substantial, but I don’t suppose you’re complaining, no?”</p><p>They laugh heartily as Cullen tries weakly for a smile, and Linnea is so thoroughly angry she has to fight furiously to keep her composure. She hates that they do this to him. She hates that the Cullen she knows, who’ll speak his mind even when he shouldn’t and holds his opinions with a loud stubbornness that is occasionally infuriating, is reduced to polite grimaces. It just doesn’t feel entirely like he’s only exercising restraint at the behest of Josephine or Leliana, as if all the fight has gone right out of him. </p><p>“The Commander is indispensable,” Linnea says loudly, perhaps more icily than she should. “He’s been critical to our success from the very beginning.”</p><p>“Ingenious, really,” Boissonade says thoughtfully, “I hadn’t considered the military benefits that would come from being so familiar with the common people, but after all, they make up both your opponents and your forces, do they not? What do you think, Renou, will you look to the peasants in Lydes for your next captain?”</p><p>There’s more raucous laughter. Cullen fixes his expression into something completely unreadable and Linnea has that horrible, sinking feeling of finally understanding something, far later than she should have. </p><p>“Truly, Commander,” the moustachioed one says, “I have been enjoying watching your progress, your techniques are simple but effective. Have you had any formal training?”</p><p>Cullen is looking just past them at a spot on the wall, his back painfully straight. “During my time in the Templar Order -“</p><p>“Oh, <em>that</em>,” Boissonade says loudly, waving an airy hand, “we’re talking about real military experience, Commander, not those zealous simpletons in their shiny armor.”</p><p>“Then no,” Cullen says, after a pause where he fixes his gaze ever more firmly on the wall. “I have not.”</p><p>“That much is obvious, if you don’t mind my saying so, though of course, your victories have held thus far -“</p><p>Linnea is just about ready to make good on those fish knife threats, so she touches Cullen’s shoulder lightly to get his attention. He barely seems to notice. </p><p>“I do apologise, Marquis,” she says, “but I’m afraid the Commander’s presence has been requested elsewhere; I’ll need to borrow him for a few moments.”</p><p>Boissonade waves his hand airily again, and Linnea has to touch Cullen’s shoulder once more to finally startle him into moving. He falls into step with her as she leads him back across the hall, deciding that Leliana is as good an accomplice as any in fabricating an excuse for Cullen’s departure.</p><p>She finds herself quite lost for words, and Cullen follows mutely for a few moments, before asking flatly, “Has something happened?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“That requires my presence?”</p><p>“Oh, no. Nothing’s happened, I just thought you might -“ Linnea takes a quick sideways look at him, finding him particularly inscrutable. “ - I, er, thought you might prefer some better company.”</p><p>Cullen looks back at her then with a slow nod. “I see.”</p><p>She slows their pace with a touch to his elbow, to buy them some time in relatively private conversation. “Are you all right?”</p><p>“As right as I can be while we remain in this idiotic city,” he mutters, but there’s not the underlying humour there that she’s used to hearing when he says something disparaging like this.</p><p>“Cullen?”</p><p>“The noise and heat in here is giving me a headache,” he says, which she suspects isn’t the entire truth, but there’s at least a hint of irascibility that is oddly relieving to hear. “I’ll be quite glad to see the evening end.”</p><p>“You and I both.”</p><p>“Really?” Cullen frowns. “You seem to be doing rather well.”</p><p>“I’ll take that as a compliment on my ability to smile convincingly for hours on end,” she says lightly, feeling nonetheless a little dejected by the accusation in his voice. She’s probably imagining it, or least exaggerating it. She’s the Inquisitor. Much of this trip relies on her ability to smile endlessly. He must appreciate this, surely, however much he dislikes the machinations. <em>Surely</em> he doesn’t think less of her. </p><p>“You certainly seem at ease,” he says, and all at once she’s not so sure anymore. </p><p>“Well, that’s the idea.”</p><p>Cullen looks away. “I suppose so.”</p><p>“The trick is,” she says, rather than the protestations she wants to make, “to focus on the food.” Cullen doesn’t smile at all, and it hadn’t been her finest attempt at humour by any means, but she’d still hoped for <em>something</em>.</p><p>They’ve reached Leliana by now, and she turns to give them both a smile that is just a shade disapproving, her eyes flickering downwards where Linnea’s hand had still been hovering anxiously by Cullen’s elbow. Linnea takes a half step sideways to put some distance between them - although she’s completely certain there was nothing untoward about it and Leliana is just making a point -  and smiles even brighter lest her irritation show too clearly on her face. </p><p>“It looks as though it will be fish to start,” Leliana says with some delight, and then looks directly at Cullen. “The little ramekins by your glass are for the bones.”</p><p>He scowls. “I know how to eat fish.”</p><p>“Leaving any bones on your plate is considered quite rustic,” Leliana continues, emphasising <em>rustic</em> into the insult Linnea never knew it could be, “and remember, place the ramekin on your plate once you’re finished so it can be removed before the main course. No one wants the lingering smell of fish. Fish knives are a little gauche these days - I expected better from the caterers - but they <em>have</em> provided them, so it would look rude not to make use of it.”</p><p>Cullen’s jaw is clenched so firmly it’s setting Linnea on edge. “The fish knife?”</p><p>Much as she hates to join in Leliana’s tutoring that is so clearly aggravating him, she hopes she can deliver it perhaps a little more gently.</p><p>“The blunt one with a pointed end,” she says, and touches his elbow again, Leliana’s slightly raised eyebrow be damned. There’s absolutely nothing unusual about casual contact like this between close colleagues and Leliana is just milking this whole situation for her own amusement. At least someone is amused; Linnea is moving fast past ‘irritated’ and straight into ‘miserable’ the longer this goes on. </p><p>Cullen turns to look at her without any outright resentment, at least, so she dares to offer something else. “They’ll refill your glass the moment it gets below halfway, and it looks terribly rude to leave it full. Just make sure you leave a third empty and it won’t be noteworthy, nor will you have to drink more than you want.” She doesn’t wait to hear his response; Dorian is gesturing for her over by the tables, and she hates to have drawn attention to his avoidance of alcohol, which Cullen seems vaguely ashamed of. </p><p>Linnea smiles at them both and gestures over at Dorian by way of making her excuses, quite certain that her planned rescue mission has not been at all as successful as she’d hoped. At least she’s leaving Cullen with someone who won’t gleefully insult him for the remainder of the time before food is served. </p><p>“Good news,” Dorian says quietly, as she takes another glass off a tray being presented politely in her direction, “you’re <em>not </em>seated directly next to our favourite Marquis, it would seem.”</p><p>“Thank the Maker.”</p><p>“Don’t celebrate quite yet, you’re still opposite him.” Dorian points discreetly at the table and she follows his finger. “Flanked by one of his horrible sidekicks to his left, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“And his right?”</p><p>“Our favourite Commander, funnily enough.”</p><p>Linnea’s face falls in dismay for an entire revealing second, before she remembers to put a more placid expression firmly back into place. “Cullen?”</p><p>“Do we have another commander I should be aware of?”</p><p>Linnea swears under her breath and glances back at Cullen, where he’s standing terribly stiffly next to Leliana who is engaging him in an animated but one-sided discussion. “Can we swap him with someone else?”</p><p>Dorian looks at her incredulously. “I know Cullen can be a bit of a liability, but I’m not sure there’s any benefit -“</p><p>“Boissonade is determined to embarrass him, Dorian. I caught them cornering him about his commoner status and ‘simple’ tactics, I can’t bear to watch them torture him again. I’m fairly sure Boissonade’s angling for the job himself, actually, or at least for one of his cronies. He certainly seems to manage to wriggle his way into being seated next to me at every one of these damned things.”</p><p>“I don’t think he’d say no to the opportunity,” Dorian says carefully, lowering his voice even further as he glances over her shoulder. “But I don’t think his determination to be at your side is entirely motivated by that slim possibility.”</p><p>Linnea matches his lower and quieter tone. “Cassandra would never agree to it. Neither would I, for that matter.”</p><p>“Yes, I think he knows that. I <em>meant</em>,” Dorian says, with a meaningful glance, “that he’s currying your good favour rather more directly.”</p><p>“I know what you meant,” Linnea says waspishly, and then to her annoyance, feels the flush on her cheeks very distinctly. “It’s nothing to do with <em>me</em>, anyway. It’s just because I am who I am.” Dorian doesn’t say anything to that, so she adds: “And he’s about <em>eighty</em>.”</p><p>“Sixty at most. I know you don’t care for the man, but credit where it’s due, surely.”</p><p>“So about the same age as my father, then.”</p><p>“Age is just a number,” Dorian says, in a mocking sing-song way that makes her think it’s a common refrain in these sorts of circles. She wonders if she would have heard it herself if her magic hadn’t spoiled her parents’ plans. </p><p>“Yes, and the Anchor is just a charmingly unique night light. This is all absurd; I wish they’d all stop pretending like I’m -” She grimaces, suddenly embarrassed. “- like I’m <em>eligible.</em>”</p><p>“Aren’t you?”</p><p>“Of course not!” Linnea raises her voice a little more than she intends. “I suppose it’s easier for <em>you</em> to forget, but nothing - not the Anchor, not Skyhold - changes the fact that I’m a mage.”</p><p>Dorian shakes his head, looking irritatingly amused by this all. “Lady Vivienne -”</p><p>“Vivienne is far smarter, beautiful, and more elegant than I could ever hope to be. If she had been born a mabari she would still be the envy of the court.”</p><p>“Undoubtedly,” Dorian says, “and that image will sustain me through many tedious conversations to come - but I think you’re being rather hard on yourself. I’d certainly encourage a healthy scepticism about noble motives and your position as Inquisitor, but you have many other qualities beside the thing on your hand. I make a point of spending parties with the most interesting person in the room,” he adds with a grin, “so that should tell you all you need to know.”</p><p>Linnea raises an eyebrow. “I’d have thought that you were the most interesting person in the room.”</p><p>“That’s true, of course, but it does get a little lonely if I keep the club <em>that</em> exclusive.”</p><p>“I’m honoured to be given second place.”</p><p>“As you should be,” Dorian says solemnly, and then gives her a sly grin. “My personal qualities aside; the Marquis has reasons other than your rank to vy for your favour.”</p><p>“Even though he’s easily twice my age?”</p><p> “You don’t need me to explain how the minds of men like him work, surely.”</p><p>“No, I’m explaining my <em>own</em> mind.” Linnea pulls a face over the top of her glass that she hopes no one else beside Dorian sees. </p><p>“You can’t deny he’s greying <em>very</em> handsomely. Extraordinarily rich, too, which never hurts.”</p><p>“Shame about his personality.”</p><p>Dorian grins. “Well, no one’s perfect. Anyway, as long as you understand his intentions. I think humiliating Cullen is just part of his noble mating dance.”</p><p>“What?” Linnea starts a little, spilling wine over the edge of the glass and acutely aware of how hot her cheeks are. She switches the hand she’s holding her glass with and tries to discreetly dry the other at her side. Does Boissonade know? Maker, Leliana will actually murder her, she won’t even need a fish knife. How could he know? “Why Cullen?”</p><p>“I think you’re right; he certainly wouldn’t object to replacing the Commander,” Dorian says thoughtfully, “but I also think he knows this isn’t likely. Cullen’s just an easy target, and someone close to you, as well, as your main tactical confidante.”</p><p>Linnea flushes again, though Dorian doesn’t seem to notice the significance of it. “It’s cruel.”</p><p>“Cullen knows how it is. He’s not so thin-skinned as all that.”</p><p>“Can’t he swap with Josie? She’s so good with Boissonade, and he likes her.”</p><p>Dorian gives her a curious look. “Lady Josephine is at the other end of the table, I’m afraid. My sleight of hand only extends so far.”</p><p>“Leliana?”</p><p>“Another table entirely.”</p><p>The first bell for dinner rings out clearly then, and Linnea’s eyes widen in panic. “Vivienne?”</p><p>“It’s a bit late for this now,” Dorian murmurs, as the guests behind them start to wind down their conversations and make their way to the dining tables. “She’s sat in the corner with her Loyalists, I believe.”</p><p>Linnea knows it’s a stupid idea even as she’s saying it, but what else can she do? “All right, then. Swap me.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“If I’m sitting opposite,” Linnea says, pinching the bridge of her nose briefly, “swap me with Cullen.”</p><p>Dorian glances behind them at the guests milling about. “You’re quite sure about this?”</p><p>“Not at all, but the alternative seems much worse. If it’s too late -“</p><p>“I told you,” Dorian says, “I’m an expert. Now, Inquisitor, what you must bear in mind -“</p><p>As he says this he raises his voice quite suddenly, and gestures widely with one arm as he takes a step by the table, his elbow hitting that of another guest and the wine glass in his hand spilling expensive Orlesian alcohol across the tablecloth in a motion that is deceptively excessive. In actual fact, very little wine sloshes over the top, but Dorian’s extravagant apologies do nothing to dispel the notion of a dreadful spillage. He sways a little on the spot and grabs for a napkin to dab at the table as the nobles he bumped into exchanged amused glances with each other. This must be when he makes the switch, before the servants swoop in with fresh napkins and another refill for Dorian’s glass, which he makes an exaggerated show of delight over and gets another laugh from his audience.</p><p>The inebriated magister is a role that the Orlesians lap up quite happily, given as they are to expect Tevinter excess. Linnea is, once again, fiercely fond of him as he happily throws his own dignity aside in favour of helping her out. The nobles fall for it, hook, line, and sinker.</p><p>Linnea takes a bracing breath, and then walks towards her new seat. Sure enough, in beautiful cursive is a delicate name card, <em>Inquisitor Trevelyan</em>, only slightly askew to indicate it isn’t exactly where it was always meant to be.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Boissonade <em>is</em> greying quite handsomely, Linnea thinks irritably, so handsomely, in fact, that she’s firmly suspicious of it. No one goes grey so perfectly symmetrical around their temples and with a neat but dramatic streak down one side, not when the rest of their hair is such a comprehensively rich chestnut. She’s absolutely certain there’s some Orlesian cosmetic interference going on there.</p><p>He is, to his credit, very well groomed in general. A lot of noble men of his age and status simply wouldn’t bother to the same extent, but she notes that from the tips of his manicured fingers to the immaculately waxed moustache even beneath his mask, his appearance is very polished. He even smells quite pleasant, clean and fresh and not too overpowering, which is just as well, because he has taken to draping his arm over the back of her chair in a gesture that brings him far closer to her than she’d like.</p><p>He did it so smoothly, as well, in a wide gesture as he was explaining something courteously to her, so it seemed quite rude to object when he didn’t move away. After it had remained there for a few minutes, Linnea soon realised her window for discouraging it was long gone.</p><p>“So you see,” the Marquis says, “I had no choice but to challenge him!”</p><p>Linnea laughs politely as she has for every other of these stories, and takes a mouthful of wine with what she hopes doesn’t look too much like desperation. Here’s the really terrible thing: the Marquis is being quite charming. He’s making it almost difficult to keep hating him quite so much, but she’s persevering stubbornly. Beneath these amusing little anecdotes and his courteous gestures in ensuring her plate is well filled, he’s horrendously rude and pompous. She <em>knows </em>this. She won’t forget so easily, however much he seems to think he can charm the knowledge out of her.</p><p>She wishes she hadn’t been so snippy with Dorian. She wishes she’d asked him just what exactly it means for a Marquis to be determined to have her good opinion, whether or not he’s also an odious slug. She’s fully aware, of course, that his attentions are lavished on her because she’s the Inquisitor, and what he wants far more than her is her power and influence - which feels absurd to say so casually, but this is her life now - but he’s lavishing his attentions on her nonetheless. Is it all for show? If she <em>was</em> to grant him her good favour, ought she return the gesture and the affectionate public demonstration between them would signify their alliance? Or does he really expect that the Inquisitor’s good favour would also entail a - a <em>roll in the hay</em>, or whatever Orlesians roll in, probably something fancier than hay - and if she humours his stories, is she as good as agreeing to this?</p><p>All those jokes about Orlesian nobles being at it like nugs in the unused rooms at their fancy soirées <em>are</em> just jokes, aren’t they? He’s not actually angling for, or even - <em>expecting -</em></p><p>Boissonade laughs heartily and shifts so his leg is practically on her chair, right alongside hers. Linnea takes another desperate mouthful of wine. </p><p>“The trick with duelling,” the Marquis says with a roguish wink, “is not to let the temptation of style over substance get the better of you.”</p><p>Linnea levels him a piercing smile. “Does style often tempt you, Marquis?”</p><p>“But of course,” he says, with an appropriate grandiose sweep of the arm not draped arrogantly over the back of her chair. “Style is important; I did not say that one should avoid it, only that excessive style can be to the detriment of what is needed to secure victory.”</p><p>“So one should win with as much style as they possibly can, ideally? As long as their victory isn’t in peril by doing so.”</p><p>“I knew you would understand,” he says with a chuckle, “I shouldn’t forget I’m talking to the Inquisitor.”</p><p>“I'm very much not an expert in duelling technique, Marquis, I assure you.”</p><p>“This goes beyond duels, my dear Inquisitor. Style is always necessary, in every type of combat.”</p><p>Linnea considers this bombastic piece of nonsense as neutrally as she can manage over another sip of wine, catching Cullen’s eye as she does so. He’s been mostly very quiet throughout dinner so far, looking over at her only when seeking reassurance on his table manners, however reluctantly. The Comtesse to his left is a middle aged woman with a kind voice and one of their newest benefactors, but she doesn’t seem put out at all to be sat next to the Commander instead of the Inquisitor. She’s been making mostly one-sided conversation but doesn’t seem to require much in the way of input from Cullen, who has been serving his neighbours before himself as instructed by Leliana. It’s quite an antiquated form of chivalry, but Leliana guessed correctly that it would carry a certain rustic charm coming from Cullen. The Comtesse keeps beaming at him delightedly, and the noble to the other side - Duke something or other - seems to be warming to him rapidly too. Linnea isn’t at all jealous, because that would be ridiculous, <em>obviously</em>. </p><p>As she catches his eye he finally has a bit of life to his expression, although regrettably, it’s an irritated sort of life. She shakes her head as subtly as she possibly can, but he has that stubborn look to him that generally indicates he’s about to ignore her. </p><p>“Then a great deal of warfare must seem quite unsatisfactory to you, Marquis Boissonade,” Cullen says stiffly, all eyes swivelling to him with an unabashed curiosity. “There’s not often much room on the battlefield for <em>style</em>.”</p><p>“There is always room for style,” Boissonade declares, raising his glass. A few follow suit with their own glasses, including the moustachioed Comte to his right. “Even in the grimmest of battles, I assure you. If I may be so bold, perhaps this is something you should give greater consideration to, Commander. The Inquisition could do with a little more style in the way it uses its troops.”</p><p>Cullen just looks at the Marquis blankly, giving Linnea a chance to jump in. “That would be very bold of you indeed,” she tells the Marquis with a playful sternness she sincerely, desperately hopes she’s judging correctly, “given the Commander’s success at the helm of our tactical endeavours.”</p><p>Boissonade laughs again, but he angles himself towards the table and so towards Cullen, where before he had been focused more firmly on Linnea. Much as this is personally quite welcome, it is also a cause for concern. The entire point of their seat-switching was to ensure she bore the brunt of his attentions, and she intends to keep it that way, however much she may or may not wish to stab him with a variety of unsuitable cutlery.</p><p>“But would his success not be more notable if it had a little style to it?” The Marquis holds his wine glass out behind him for the servant to fill it without even a word to request it, and in this single gesture Linnea’s estimation of him dips once again. She forces herself to think of just how deep his coffers can go, and just how much Josephine will thank her for keeping her cool, and smiles serenely. </p><p>“Are we not notable already?” she asks mildly. “Funny, I rather thought this evening was in my honour…”</p><p>“As it rightly should be,” Boissonade says, and to her unmitigated horror he takes her hand from where she’s resting it on her lap and brings her knuckles contritely to his lips, which she endures with a tight smile. She wonders if he’d dare do that to her left hand, and the thought of his alarm at the Anchor hissing green tendrils towards him helps nudge her smile into more genuine territory.</p><p>She retrieves her hand as soon as it no longer seems rude, and then glances over at Cullen despite her better judgement. He doesn’t meet her eyes and lifts his glass to his own lips and she sees him barely wet them with the wine, but at least he’s taken her advice to heart. His glass has a perfect third consumed and reminds otherwise untouched and unfilled. A satisfactory compromise.</p><p>“Then the Inquisition has no need of additional style, I think,” she says, turning her attention back to Boissonade. “We have the victories and the infamy both.”</p><p>“There is always more to be had,” the Marquis says, with an expression she dislikes thoroughly, “let us take the example of your bold escape from Haven, for example. Now, I don’t disapprove of the retreat, you must understand - any tactician of worth will agree that an advantageous retreat is a necessary tool in your arsenal, but you <em>must</em> exercise style to ensure that the retreat is remembered nonetheless as a victorious moment.”</p><p>“A victorious moment?” Cullen repeats, his voice still stiff but Linnea can hear the disgust creeping in. “We lost a lot of people that night -“</p><p>“All the more reason to ensure such a costly loss left a lasting impression, Commander. Perhaps you lack the necessary vision.”</p><p>“Now, Marquis,” Linnea says firmly, weakly conciliatory but at least not being obviously rude. “The Commander’s actions saved many lives. That isn’t a night anyone who went through much cares to relive, so I’m sure you understand it’s a sensitive subject for us.”</p><p>“That should not stop one evaluating how one could achieve better results in the future, Lady Inquisitor.”</p><p>Linnea hardly needs to glance at Cullen to see his jaw is clenched tightly. “I’ve been rather hoping I’ve had my lifetime quota of surviving a mountain collapsing on me, as it happens,” she says dryly, and to her relief there is a general ripple of laughter around them. Cullen looks down at his plate and the Marquis doesn’t seem inclined to press the point further, so - in the dispassionate duplicity that is playing the Great Game - she considers that a win. Not one that she enjoyed winning, but it’s something. </p><p>Boissonade turns his attention back to her with that way of grinning he has that is presumably meant to be winsome, and even though it’s half hidden by the eyes of his mask she knows she’s meant to notice the way he looks her up and down. She’d have been unaccountably thrilled to have someone look at her like that not so very long ago. Even the Marquis. Even knowing that it means very little more than she’s the Inquisitor and he thinks this is the best way to secure some of that power. She’d still have been flattered that this is the route he chose to take in trying to acquire it. She’d still have been relieved to feel something as mundane as being considered an acceptable enough stand in for a genuine object of desire, however much potential for insult there also was. </p><p>But now? Well. She just wishes Cullen would look up at her, and she wishes she knew how and when to put a polite stop to the emerging boldness of the Marquis, and she’s starting to understand the things she used to want a little better in light of the things she wants now. </p><p>To think they’re not even halfway through their brief time in Orlais, and it already feels like several weary months. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Well, I think that went very smoothly,” Josie says, with no small relief. It’s the first time she’s made reference to the success or otherwise of the evening since they left, having remained impeccably on guard the entire carriage ride back to their residence. She’d stayed equally tight lipped until after the fire was lit and the bed warmers delivered dutifully to each room, too, and so Linnea had followed her lead in keeping up the act until the last non-Inquisition employee had finally retreated.</p><p>“I certainly ate far too much,” Linnea says, patting her stomach through the regrettably structured garment that Vivienne had coaxed her into. Still, she’d done her best to enjoy as much food as she could despite the boning being determined to put a hard limit on her efforts.</p><p>Josie laughs and takes a seat by the fire, easing her shoes off with the smallest of winces, and Linnea joins her, much as she wouldn’t mind retiring to her own room where she can take her courtly attire off in earnest. She knows Josie quite well by now - but probably not <em>quite </em>well enough to start unhooking and unbuttoning. Besides, this may be ostensibly a private sitting room for the Inquisitor and her advisors, but true privacy in Halamshiral is, whilst theoretically achievable, worth staying a little suspicious of.</p><p>Cullen meanwhile, has already shed his coat, and is holding it in his hands as he stands uncertainly halfway between the fire and the door to his designated room, which she knows for a fact he hasn’t actually slept in. He and Josephine had what they probably thought was a discreet and quiet argument about it this morning; she has forbidden him from continuing to slip out and instead spend most of his time in the military style Inquisition camp just north of the residence that has been put aside for their use. Linnea caught a protest from him that had something to do with Leliana’s continued absences - she’s disappeared again this evening to attend to the incoming and outgoing ravens - but Josephine was quite adamant, and Cullen was overruled. Linnea pretended she hadn’t heard, and they both pretended they hadn’t argued at all whilst clearly still nursing some irritation at the way it had played out. It was delightfully awkward over breakfast. </p><p>Linnea pats one hand encouragingly on the other end of the chaise on which she’s sitting, but it’s quite a tricky gesture to do without seeming at least a <em>little</em> patronising. She smiles brightly to try and make up for it, but Cullen stays standing, fiddling with the buttons on his sleeve.</p><p>“Dorian seemed a little worse for wear,” Josie says, and Linnea shakes her head with a grin.</p><p>“Oh, he just likes to milk it. He said the wine was swill and he could hardly bear to drink it.”</p><p>“Hmm,” is all Josie says, which means that - yes, it absolutely was swill, but she’s far too polite to openly agree. “I admit I prefer something lighter with fish.”</p><p>Linnea lets out a wistful sigh. “Maker, but I’ve missed sea fish. You don’t realise what you’ve got until you’re stuck up the top of a mountain without any, it would seem.”</p><p>“Then I have marvellous news for you with regards to some of the trading agreements we reached yesterday.”</p><p>“Josie, you’re a wonder,” Linnea tells her with sincerity, and Josephine waves a hand the way she often does when complimented in a way she feels is gratuitous. It rarely is. </p><p>“It was not at all a selfless act, I assure you.”</p><p>“I rather enjoyed the sorbet too,” Linnea says, and it’s her glassy-eyed and longing expression over the delights of dinner that finally moves Cullen to an amused snort. Josephine and Leliana rarely attempt to draw him into conversations when he’s in this sort of mood, but Linnea always tries. She thinks she might know him well enough now to know a good foothold when she sees one. “Didn’t you like it?”</p><p>“Not as much as you, evidently,” Cullen says, and she bites her lip to stop the sheepish but pleased expression that wants to form. She’s just completely, <em>completely </em>stupid for him, and that extends - apparently - to being completely delighted that he might have been watching her enjoy each spoonful of sorbet. She has a wonderful vision of him watching her close her eyes on a particularly delicious mouthful.</p><p>Dorian might have been milking it, but Linnea is not a seasoned drinker. The only reason she isn’t completely giddy is probably due to just how much she’s eaten, and she knows she needs to be careful. This is precisely what she’s trying to avoid right now. </p><p>“My advice still stands,” she says, patting the chaise again hopefully. “If the company is disappointing, just focus on the food.”</p><p>Cullen moves towards the chaise, still fidgeting with his coat as he folds and re-folds it in his arms and smooths out the sleeves fretfully, but he doesn’t sit. “And was the company disappointing?” he asks, his voice carefully non-committal. </p><p>“Some of it.”</p><p>“I see the Marquis continues to be quite taken with you,” Josephine says delicately.</p><p>“Unfortunately,” Linnea mutters, and Cullen lets out a little huff of irritated amusement. “Don’t worry, I was extremely gracious.”</p><p>Josie frowns. “Then you find the Marquis objectionable?”</p><p>“It’s hard not to, isn’t it?”</p><p>“He’s an opinionated man,” Josie agrees, “and he can certainly be difficult, but…”</p><p>“Maker, not you too.” Linnea blinks at her in disbelief. “I suppose he’s not terrible to look at, but I truly don’t understand this obsession everyone has with him -“</p><p>“They do?” Cullen mutters, aggrieved. </p><p>“You misunderstand,” Josie says, which is the closest Linnea suspects she’ll ever get to being openly rude about Boissonade, “I meant only that the seating plan didn’t originally have you in adjacent seats.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“I assumed you had arranged a swap.”</p><p>Linnea is just enough on the side of tipsy that she can’t come up with anything better than to feign polite confusion, probably quite badly. “No?”</p><p>“Mix ups happen, I suppose.” Josephine folds her hands in her lap and then looks at Linnea with a suspicious expression that is quite unexpected. </p><p>“I suppose they do.”</p><p>“Curious that the seating arrangement changed <em>after</em> Dorian had his theatrical stumble onto the table, is it not?” Josie keeps looking at her, and Linnea starts to squirm. “Curious as well that he stumbled at all if - as you say - he wasn’t truly so worse for wear…”</p><p>Cullen looks to her with suspicion now, too, and Linnea can feel her cheeks flushing. “You <em>wanted</em> to sit next to that man?”</p><p>“Well, obviously not -“</p><p>“Was Dorian attempting to put more distance between the two of you and made an error?” Josephine frowns. “No, the duchess was still to your right -“</p><p>“It was me,” Cullen says, very quietly and flatly. “It was me you swapped places with, wasn’t it?”</p><p>Linnea looks at him a little desperately, the conversation spinning suddenly out of her control. He’s frowning down at the coat in his arms now and avoiding her eyes. “Cullen -“</p><p>“Am I that much of a liability?”</p><p>“You’re not a liability,” she says firmly, “it wasn’t about that at all, he would’ve tortured you all evening and enjoyed it.”</p><p>Cullen still doesn’t look at her. “And you thought I couldn’t handle it, therefore becoming a liability -“</p><p>“I didn’t want you to <em>have</em> to handle it,” she says, furious at Boissonade all over again, and no doubt it shows in her voice. “He was being so cruel to you, Cullen. I couldn’t just watch that happen for hours and hours!”</p><p>He looks at her then, and even behind his carefully closed-off expression she can see that he’s unhappy. He clears his throat and folds his coat ever tighter in his arms. </p><p>“I’m tired,” he says abruptly, “it’s been a long night, if you’ll excuse me -“</p><p>And then, with a stiff little nod of his head, he turns on his heel and disappears behind the gilded door of his bedroom, the last thing she sees is the slump of his shoulders before it shuts after him. Linnea feels really quite wretched. </p><p>After a long and fairly uncomfortable silence, Josephine sighs. </p><p>“That was very kind of you,” she says gently, “and I’m sure Cullen -“ Josie pauses as her gaze drifts over to his closed door. “I’m sure he appreciates the sentiment.”</p><p>“I think he begrudgingly appreciates the <em>sentiment</em>, but I sincerely doubt he appreciates the action.” Linnea drags her hand through her hair with a sigh, forgetting that it had been carefully pinned into place for the evening, and so mostly just succeeds in making herself look completely dishevelled. “He’d probably much rather have been miserable all evening, just on principle.”</p><p>“It is a sensitive subject for him,” Josephine says, “perhaps, tomorrow…”</p><p>“Perhaps,” Linnea says politely, though she doesn’t especially agree. She’s not sure she can articulate that to Josie without some explanation of the particulars of her and Cullen’s relationship, and Leliana is still quite firm that this shouldn’t be unearthed in Halamshiral in any capacity at all as far as Josie is concerned.</p><p>“It was very thoughtful of you,” Josephine says again, the question clear despite her delicate wording. Linnea smiles blandly and pretends she doesn’t notice. The real question goes unsaid and unacknowledged: <em>but why make such a thoughtful gesture? </em></p><p>“No good deed goes unpunished,” she says, trying for levity but immediately kicking herself for how gloomy it comes out. The implication that Cullen’s unhappiness is a <em>punishment </em>to her says all sorts of things she certainly doesn’t intend. She wishes she wasn’t navigating this minefield just on the wrong side of tipsy, and tries to run her hand through her hair again. More of the pinned sections come halfway loose and she must look faintly ridiculous. “I think sleep might be in order for me too, actually.”</p><p>Josie nods. “It’s certainly been a long day.”</p><p>“It has indeed,” Linnea says, and they both stand, Josephine picking her shoes up from where she discarded them by the fire. “I hope you sleep well.”</p><p>“Thank you, Inquisitor. I’m quite certain I will.” Josie glances towards Cullen’s door as she passes, and pauses for a moment with her hand on the door handle to her own room. “I hope that you are able to rest too, although I know Halamshiral can be a somewhat - <em>stressful</em> environment.”</p><p>Linnea smiles weakly. “With these pillows? However stressful, I guarantee you I’ll sleep like a particularly luxurious log.”</p><p>Josephine laughs quietly as she excuses herself, and left alone in the firelight, Linnea finds herself taking another look at Cullen’s closed door. She thinks about knocking on it. The walls are well-made and the rooms filled with plush upholstery but the sound still carries in the quiet; she knows this from overhearing Cullen and Josie this morning. Even if she could knock quietly enough, their voices would probably travel through the walls to Josephine nonetheless.</p><p>That, and she’s very full of rich food and very drowsy from the rich wine, and she’s not sure that she’d be at all the version of herself he’d want to see even without those. Without the wine, she thinks wryly, that thought would sting a lot more. As it is, well - </p><p>She doesn’t knock. She pulls the pins out her hair and wriggles out her courtly clothes until the Inquisitor is left in a pile on the floor of her bedroom, and it’s just Linnea who collapses wearily into the beautifully fluffy pillows.</p><p>She does indeed sleep like a particularly luxurious log, waking only once before sunrise to the quiet sounds of Cullen’s door closing and footsteps down the hall.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Linnea really hates letting Josephine down. It’s the only reason she endures the entire morning without complaint, and it’s the only reason she lasts until mid-afternoon with her teeth gritted before definitely, absolutely letting Josie down, and slipping out the side door.</p><p>It’s not completely inexcusable, she tells herself hopefully, it wasn’t so far from the time she’d be expected to excuse herself anyway, and she’d said all the right things to the right people at least before she left - </p><p>There’s really no escaping the fact she’s let Josephine down, no matter the optimistic angle she looks at it from. It’s too late now. She’s done it. She just has to own and accept her failure and somehow find herself in a better place to tackle their evening appointment. And then she has to get up tomorrow and do it all over again, but with higher stakes, and an even better performance.</p><p>She pushes open the door to their residence wearily, unsure quite exactly how she intends to rejuvenate herself but with vague notions of taking a bath hot enough to make her slightly dizzy and the delight of being completely unattended to. No one knows she’s here, and no one else is due to return before their planned evening with the Grand Duke. Her failure will not go unnoticed but it will at least go unseen.</p><p>She stops dead in front of the fireplace when she hears voices coming from within</p><p>“Consider it, at least,” one of the voices says, and Linnea takes a cautious step forward to see Cullen’s door half-open, and a recognisable figure standing in the doorway, facing into the room. “If you’re worried about oversleeping, I can ensure that you are woken in time.“</p><p>“I’m not worried about that,” comes the waspish reply, and there’s not just frustration in Cullen’s voice, but an edge of something not unlike hysteria. “You know I - I <em>can’t.</em> If it was that simple -“</p><p>The figure in the doorway sighs and leans against the frame, but not impatiently. Cassandra has, despite much posturing to the contrary, an incredible well of patience. The matter-of-fact but gentle tone she’s taking with Cullen is one she’s used with a frantic Linnea many times. “The healer assures me it would be dreamless.”</p><p>“They always say that just to get you to drink the damn thing. Same way they promise you won’t feel a thing before causing you extreme amounts of pain.”</p><p>“I was quite firm on that requirement, but perhaps you’re right. But perhaps it would be worth it.”</p><p>“I <em>can’t</em>.”</p><p>“You can’t go on like this,” Cassandra says simply, completely without melodrama. “When did you last sleep more than a few hours at a time?”</p><p>“Is that a joke?” Cullen says, and then laughs shortly without anything even remotely resembling humour. Linnea can hear him pacing even on the plush rug. “I’m a liability.”</p><p>“That is untrue.”</p><p>Cullen lets out another humourless bark of laughter that Linnea feels suddenly is entirely her fault, and shrinks into the doorway of her own room, fumbling for the handle and praying it opens silently. </p><p>“You shouldn’t be indulging this.”</p><p>“Do I strike you as a particularly indulgent person?”</p><p>“You <em>know</em> what I meant. You should -“ Cullen breaks off agitatedly and there’s the sound of him pacing once more. </p><p>“This is not the time to have this discussion.” Cassandra sounds brisk but oddly soothing, in that peculiar way she has that makes her such a charming tutor. “Consider the draught, at least. If not now, then this evening.”</p><p>There’s a short silence. “I’ll - I’ll consider it.” Even without being able to see his expression, it’s not very convincing. </p><p>“I understand your reservations, but you need sleep. You do look quite terrible.”</p><p>“How kind of you to say,” Cullen says flatly, and Cassandra snorts in response, shifting away from where she’s leaning against the doorframe. The conversation is clearly winding down, so Linnea takes advantage of the sounds of Cassandra’s brisk amusement to exert that last bit of pressure on her door handle and slide into her room with minimal noise. She stands with her back against the door and lets out a relieved breath. She’s learned nothing she didn’t already know, not really, but this feels like something she ought not be eavesdropping on. Unintentionally or otherwise.</p><p>She stays silent for a few minutes more as the low murmur of their voices carries through the walls, and then she hears footsteps and the sound of a door closing. Cassandra leaving, presumably - someone is still moving in Cullen’s room, and it sounds occasionally like he’s still pacing back and forth. </p><p>She pretends to herself for a few more minutes that she’s going to have that bath. She’s going to soak away the weariness of the day and then harden herself for the evening yet to come, she tells herself, and it’s going to be hot to the point where it’s almost unbearable in just the way she likes it. Her fingertips are going to shrivel like prunes and there won’t be an ounce of tension left in her body.</p><p>She tells herself all this, and then five minutes later, she’s standing outside Cullen’s slightly ajar door and tapping softly on it with her knuckles. Once it would’ve been a debate, but now, there’s no question. Her bath was doomed from the moment she heard his agitated voice.</p><p>He opens the door with a somewhat startled expression, and clears his throat. It’s hard to get a clear look at his face when he’s in shadow from the lights within the room, but she recognises the exhausted lines beneath his eyes only too well. </p><p>“I thought you were meeting the - the Couvreurs.” He still stumbles over the Orlesian pronunciation a little, but in a way that suggests to Linnea he’s been practicing, so she doesn’t have the heart to correct him again.</p><p>“I was. I thought you and Cassandra were -“</p><p>“We were,” he says, and then opens the door a little wider. She’s not sure if it’s an invitation, so stays standing politely outside the door. She’s spent so much of the past few weeks studiously keeping her distance from him, it’s almost as though they’ve forgotten how to do otherwise. It’s not the first time the thought has occurred to her, and it makes her miserable every time.</p><p>“Is everything all right?”</p><p>He grimaces. “I haven’t caused a diplomatic incident, if that’s what you mean.”</p><p>“What I meant,” Linnea says, feeling guilty all over again at the terseness of his reply, “was are <em>you</em> all right?”</p><p>“Of course,” he says curtly, and then after a long moment of silence he looks at her, <em>really</em> looks at her. It’s not a comforting look - drawn and exhausted - but it comforts her nonetheless if only because it’s the first time he’s truly looked at her since they arrived in this awful place. “I’ve been better,” he mutters, begrudgingly but much more honestly, and then he opens the door and steps back into the room rubbing the back of his neck in agitation. This time, Linnea feels quite sure she’s meant to follow him in, so she does.</p><p>The bed is still made immaculately, a caricature of sheets that haven’t seen so much as an attempt at being slept in, the pillow still perfectly fluffed and plump without so much as a whisper of an indentation. It all feels distinctly unused and uncluttered, except for the dressing table which is covered messily in various vials and tins and folded papers, amongst other things. Even back at Skyhold in his own space, Cullen isn’t inclined to this sort of clutter, so it stops her in her tracks.</p><p>“By the Maker,” she says before she can think better of it, “you have a veritable apothecary in here. Are you planning to open up shop?”</p><p>Cullen doesn’t so much as smile at the weak joke, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve... been having trouble sleeping.”</p><p>Linnea reaches for the nearest couple of vials, tilting them towards her to get a better look at the contents. Even disregarding her accidental eavesdropping, she recognises them at once. “Is that what all these are for?”</p><p>“Cassandra,” he says wearily, by way of explanation. He’s still managing to avoid explicitly answering the question, she notes, even as he essentially confirms her suspicions. “Leliana, too. When I’m not able to sleep, the headaches become much more severe - I’m <em>fine</em>,” he amends irritably, no doubt seeing the alarm on her face. “They’re still fairly manageable as it stands, but it’s vital that I’m well for the duration, as well you know, and if I continue at this rate I’ll be no use to - “</p><p>“I know,” she says softly, trying to be soothing, but it just seems to send him deeper into self-recrimination. She takes his hand instead and is surprised by how hard he grips back. This might be the first time they’ve properly touched since they came to Orlais. It’s certainly the first time they’ve been alone and able to talk freely. She’s gripping a little on the tighter side, too. “Have they helped?”</p><p>“Not really.”</p><p>Linnea takes his other hand as well - there’s no particular reason for this to soften what she has to ask, but he grips back just as tightly even as his gaze flickers briefly to the door and back - and she tries not to sound accusatory. “Forgive me; have you actually tried them?”</p><p>Cullen lets out an irritated sigh, though she doesn’t think it’s entirely aimed at her. After a moment of slightly awkward silence, he meets her eyes. “I know you think I’m willfully contrary -“</p><p>“You? Perish the thought.”</p><p>“- <em>but</em>,” he continues flatly, and she’s certain she sees a brief glimmer of amusement nonetheless, “I don’t actually intend to disgrace the Inquisition, even if I find Orlais -“ He closes his mouth decisively rather than continue with that thought, and despite the context she has the sudden urge to laugh. “I have no wish to be a liability.”</p><p>“I do know that, actually,” she says with a wince, “and I’m so sorry about Boissonade, Cullen. I didn’t mean anything by that other than I wanted to spare you the trouble. It certainly wasn’t because I think you can’t handle him. I’m not sure <em>I </em>can handle him, come to that, but at least he’s not determined to insult me at every possible opportunity.”</p><p>The look Cullen gives her is hard to read though she scans his face intently. His hands still grip hers, and he nudges her fingers until they’re intertwined with his. “You’re the Inquisitor. You shouldn’t have to consider sparing me <em>trouble</em>. Besides, I’m not sure the way he behaves towards you is any better.”</p><p>Linnea can’t help it; she bites down hard on her lip to stop herself grinning. “The Marquis is always very attentive and engaging.”</p><p>“Yes,” Cullen says flatly, “it looks exhausting. The way he fawns over you -“</p><p>“Then I take it that the Comtesse and the Duke were exhausting for you to be sat between as well?” </p><p>“Hardly. They at least allowed me a modicum of personal space.”</p><p>“Well,” she says, still fighting a grin, “such is the burden of being infamous, I suppose.” </p><p>Cullen now looks thoroughly perplexed. “It really doesn’t bother you? I assumed you were just far more skilled at hiding your -“</p><p>“Maker, no, I can’t stand the man, he makes my skin crawl,” she says, and doesn’t miss the satisfaction that flashes briefly across Cullen’s face, however sheepishly. “The worst of it is how <em>insincere</em> the entire charade is, I feel like I’m sitting there pretending that I enjoy his company at the same time he’s sitting there pretending he enjoys <em>mine</em>, and really we’d all just far rather sit in silence and ignore each other.”</p><p>“Focus on the food?” Cullen says dryly, and ordinarily she’d enjoy his teasing, but she’s too caught up in her own agitated musings now to fully appreciate it. After this morning, she finds that her usual resilience has quite worn away, and then there’s something about the way Cullen is rubbing his thumb absently against her wrist that has her defences lowered even further. </p><p>“Maybe you’re right,” she continues miserably, “maybe it would be better if he just insulted me. I don’t have any objections to people currying my good favour <em>as</em> the Inquisitor, I can understand promising trade or troops and hoping for something in return, but when they try to pretend that it’s personal - it’s just much worse, somehow. And the worst part is that you <em>want </em>to believe them, you <em>want </em>to think that after two decades of pretending you didn’t exist, they really were happy to see you alive and well, and -“</p><p>She’s aware of Cullen letting go of her hands to reach over and push the door shut before she’s entirely aware that she’s crying. <em>Crying, </em>again. The mortification kicks in immediately and she screws her eyes shut furiously.</p><p>“Could we possibly spare my dignity and pretend this isn’t happening?” she asks desperately, but Cullen shakes his head. </p><p>“The Couvreurs, this morning,” he says quietly, mispronouncing it again, somehow adding in an extra syllable in the middle. It couldn’t be more comically Ferelden if he tried. “It didn’t go well?”</p><p>“No, no - it went perfectly well. They were very welcoming. You’d think we were close family rather than estranged and distant relatives, but the last time they saw me they wouldn’t even - oh, it doesn’t matter.” Why is she <em>crying</em> about this? Why is she crying about this <em>now</em>? She reaches up to bury her face in her hands, but Cullen catches them loosely and she lets him hold them gently instead, though with a grimace. “There must be something about you,” she mutters accusingly, “I never used to be this pathetically prone to tears, and yet I seem to keep making a fool of myself in front of you. It stands to reason it’s your fault.” </p><p>“I do apologise,” he says, very seriously, but as he stifles a smile she laughs weakly. “And I’m afraid I still don’t have an appropriate handkerchief to offer you.”</p><p>“Dreadful,” she says as severely as she can through her suddenly watery voice. “You’re definitely the common denominator, as far as I can see. Nothing at all to do with the fact that the world’s doing its level best to end dramatically, or that apparently I’m suddenly everyone’s best shot at stopping said dramatic end, or -“</p><p>“Of course.” He reaches up to hold her face and wipes away a tear gently with his thumb. It’s the sort of gesture that were she observing from the outside, she’d find it eyerollingly nauseating. From the inside, however, she feels a little lost for words. Has Cassandra finally made a romantic out of her? Or even worse: has <em>Varric</em>?</p><p>The truth, undoubtedly, is far more embarrassing than either of those options. Rather than follow that thought any further, she closes her eyes for a few moments and they stand in a companionable, comforting quiet. </p><p>“I came here to make sure you were all right,” she says eventually, when she feels a bit more in control of herself, “not to cry all over you like an infant. After making an unauthorised exit from a party in my honour like some kind of horribly spoiled child, I might add.”</p><p>“Ah.”</p><p>“Yes, <em>ah</em>. I’ll have to smooth that one over later. I’m guessing you’re in a similar predicament?”</p><p>“Not quite,” Cullen says, rubbing her arms absently in a way that really is very soothing. She’s quite disappointed when he stops. “Leliana sent me away early,” he says, with some reluctance. “I’m supposed to be resting, or failing that -“</p><p>“Failing that?” she prompts, after a long pause.</p><p>“She gave me some powder and pigmented cream,” Cullen says, gesturing towards the table unhappily. “She suggested that if I can’t rest before this evening, I should make myself presentable by alternative means.” Linnea winces in sympathy and squeezes his hand. “I don’t really look that dreadful, do I?”</p><p>She considers his face briefly, lingering over the ever darker circles beneath his eyes, and takes his face in her hands as his expression falls. “You do look very tired,” she says, as kindly as she can. Thus far in Halamshiral it hasn’t been quite so pronounced, and Cullen has looked merely a little pale and overworked, perhaps. Nothing terribly unexpected. Today it seems to have reached a cumulative effect that is immediately noticeable. It’s been some time since she last saw him looking like this. </p><p>She can feel him deflate beneath her palms as he mumbles, “Is that so terrible?”</p><p>“This is Halamshiral,” she says, “anything can be political ammunition. If Leliana thinks this is best, then…” She shrugs helplessly. </p><p>“I see,” he says, in a tone that suggests he absolutely doesn’t see at all, but understands he’s up against something that can’t be reasoned with. Not that he’s going to give up without any sort of fight at all, of course. “Won’t it look worse if they notice I’m covering it up? Then it’s as if I have something to hide.”</p><p>“Excessively powdered faces seem to be in fashion, so I’m inclined to think not.” Linnea considers his face again, trying not to look too critical. It’s a terrible thing to tell someone their face isn’t acceptable for reasons that are both beyond their control and a personal source of shame. “I know you don’t especially care for them, but perhaps the right shape of mask would help?”</p><p>“No good. The damned eye holes are still too big, and -“ Cullen clenches his jaw. “I’d rather not wear one, anyway.”</p><p>Linnea hums thoughtfully, and then having failed to think of a way to do it subtly, feels his forehead with the back of her fingers to gauge his temperature. Satisfied there’s nothing she ought to be worrying about in that regard, she drops her hands to his shoulders. “I take it, then, that you’re not planning to rest?”</p><p>He drops his eyes from her gaze. “I’d rather not take something that will make me drowsy before needing my wits about me this evening.”</p><p>“But you’ll take it tonight?” </p><p>Cullen shifts beneath her hands with an uncomfortable huff of breath. “I… would prefer not to.”</p><p>“Can I ask why?” Linnea feels immediately she has crossed a line, but Cullen just shifts again and catches one of her elbows, still avoiding her eyes. She stays patiently quiet as he wets his lips and swallows.</p><p>“I don’t particularly care for sleep I can’t easily wake up from.”</p><p>It seems like it’s taken a lot for him to admit that, so she just nods briskly, determined not to linger on it. It’s not such an unusual stance, and even quite a logical one in many regards. “Perhaps just something mildly soporific this evening, then, to help you fall asleep but nothing that would keep you under. There are plenty of things I could suggest; I’d offer to source it for you, but you’ve quite the store cupboard.”</p><p>One corner of his mouth tugs up a little. “I think I can manage to put my hands on something.”</p><p>“Powder it is for this evening, then,” she adds brightly, and then, because stopping herself takes far more willpower than she has left in her reserves, and because the door is shut, and because she knows <em>exactly</em> where Leliana and Josephine are and it’s <em>not</em> <em>here</em>, she curls one hand around the back of his neck and raises up on her toes to kiss him.</p><p>She just means to press a gentle kiss to his mouth. He’s exhausted and in less than stellar health, she’s emotionally wrung out and weary to her bones, but she just wants to let him know that despite everything, nothing has really changed. It’s supposed to just be sweet and tender and reassuring.</p><p>Not that it <em>isn’t</em> those things too, but when the time comes for her to draw back, Cullen pulls her closer and she parts her lips without a second thought, or a third thought, or even a fourth. There is a fifth, however, that just tartly lets her know that she’s in trouble, which she ignores.</p><p>There’s a lot behind this kiss. There’s her loneliness in the role the insincerity of this place has her trapped in, just how fiercely she’s been missing him, just how fiercely she’s been pretending that she doesn’t, how much she worries about him, all the time, how much all of this somehow matters to her when she’s used to priding herself on a detachment she no longer seems able to summon -</p><p>And there’s the simple things, too. The way his hand half in her hair and half gripping the back of her neck makes her feel like she could be poured quite effectively onto the floor in her new liquid state. The delight of melting into him after what feels like an age of diligently avoiding any contact at all, and the strange thrill of knowing that even with the door shut, it’s probably still a risk. The fact that she’s wanted to wreak havoc on his perfectly groomed hair and the pressed lines of his coat so very much, and she’s finally getting to.</p><p>They pull back at the exact same moment with a matching dutiful reluctance. Cullen brushes some hair carefully away from her face and she has the ridiculous but fervent thought that she will actually, genuinely die if she has to go back to stoic indifference and forgo these little acts of tenderness for the sake of diplomacy. </p><p>“Powder, then,” Cullen murmurs, and she just blinks at him for a moment before she recalls what they were talking about. “For all the difference it’ll make.”</p><p>“I think you’d be surprised. I saw Renou this morning without any and hardly recognised him.”</p><p>“I must be a far more severe case.” Cullen’s jaw clenches again. “I had already tried applying some before you knocked, and - well.”</p><p>“For the record,” she says firmly, taking his chin in her hands, “I think you’re still terribly dashing even when you’re less well rested.” Now that she’s looking, she can see a little powder high on his cheeks and beneath his eyes; it’s not really enough to do much, Cullen has been far too hesitant. “It’s… rugged.”</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>“It’s true! Our aim here isn’t to prettify you, but to ensure our host is flattered by how amazingly well you’ve apparently been sleeping in these beautiful beds.” She turns his face gently in the other direction as he scoffs with amusement. “I think you might just need to be a bit bolder with the application.”</p><p>“I wasn’t sure - I’m not -“ Cullen sighs. “Is it acceptable amongst the nobility to -“</p><p>She cuts across him before he can twist himself in agitated knots over all the things he couldn’t possibly be expected to know. “Would you like my help? It’s easier, sometimes, on someone else’s face than on your own.”</p><p>“I would, thank you,” he says, looking fervently relieved, and at Linnea’s gesture he leans against the edge of the table with his face angled toward the natural light from the window. She reaches for the tin of tinted cream and starts to gently pat some beneath his eyes, planning to chatter away inanely as best she can, lest the whole situation get to him. He doesn’t do well feeling like he’s useless, and despite his expression of relief moments before, he isn’t inclined to ask for or accept help very graciously.</p><p>“I’m not terribly good at this, I’m afraid, but I’ve been getting a lot of practice trying to powder my Trevelyan nose out of existence,” she tells him. </p><p>“Your... Trevelyan nose?”</p><p>“Our most commonly inherited and yet most unfortunate feature.” She raises an eyebrow and taps at the side of the offending nose with one of her clean fingers. “Not at all like the dainty little buttons that are preferred in Orlais at present.”</p><p>Cullen frowns. “I like your nose. I object to you powdering it out of existence.”</p><p>“That’s very kind of you to say, but it’s the most obnoxiously Marcher thing about me. My mother was so disappointed when we all popped out with the Trevelyan nose. You can’t mingle seamlessly with Orlesian nobility when you’ve got a sign in the middle of your face screaming ‘minor Ostwick family’.”</p><p>“Absurd,” Cullen mutters, and then carefully, so as not to disturb her efforts on his face, he reaches out to place a hand on her waist. “It’s a very nice nose.” His way of paying her a compliment is so matter of fact as to be actually quite charming. There’s certainly no doubting his sincerity, and it doesn’t make her blush as such, but it does warm her cheeks. That’s the truly absurd thing: that she’s so thrilled to be told something so bland as her nose is ‘nice’. It’s just something about the way he says it, especially after the Couvreurs’ eyes kept lingering on it.</p><p>“It’s always served me well.” Linnea pats his under eyes with the pad of her finger until she is satisfied it looks smooth, then reaches for the second tin. “Close your eyes for a moment?”</p><p>Cullen shuts them obediently and she has to shuffle a little closer, his hand still resting on her waist. Now that they’ve broken their miserable streak of avoiding any sort of touch at all, it’s as if one point of contact alone is suddenly insufficient.</p><p>“I broke my nose when I was younger.”</p><p>“Really?” She stops gently dabbing at his eyelids to run a finger over it appraisingly. “Magically healed? They did a rather good job.”</p><p>“Yes, actually. It was a magically charged snowball that broke it in the first place.”</p><p>“This sounds like quite a story.”</p><p>“I’m not sure it is,” he says, but she can feel him smiling beneath her fingers. “I was just the unfortunate initiate chosen to patrol on the one night the apprentices were settling some sort of score between them.”</p><p>“Oh, dear. I dread to think how much trouble they were in for injuring a strapping young Templar.”</p><p>“As it happens,” Cullen says, opening his eyes cautiously as she reaches for the powder, “I told the first enchanter I’d walked into a door.”</p><p>“Commander! I can hardly imagine you being a co-conspirator in rule breaking.”</p><p>“I’ve broken rules.” He sounds almost offended. “Besides, it would’ve been far more embarrassing to admit I’d been caught off guard by an unexpected snowball.”</p><p>Linnea bites back a grin. “More embarrassing than walking into a door?”</p><p>Cullen blushes. “I was very young. And, well, she was kind enough to offer to heal it. No harm done.”</p><p>“I really did have you down as a dreadful stickler, you know.” Linnea holds his chin with her hands, tilting his face to check her handiwork this far. “You let an <em>apprentice</em> heal a broken nose?”</p><p>“Maker, no, I went straight to the infirmary. Although in hindsight, I’m sure she was more than capable.”</p><p>“She?” Linnea gives him a quizzical look.</p><p>“The Hero of Ferelden, no less. Though obviously before the epithet.”</p><p>“The Hero of Ferelden broke your nose! Now, that is a story. Some free advice: next time you tell it, open with that.” </p><p>Cullen laughs quietly, turning his head obligingly as she moves it with her fingers. “Perhaps. Most people can’t imagine her doing anything so frivolous, I wouldn’t want to spoil her reputation.”</p><p>“I think it’d take more than a story about a snowball to do that.” He’s moving his thumb on her waist again in a very distracting way. “What was she really like? Was she that fearsome? Did you scurry off to the infirmary because her snowballs were the stuff of nightmares?”</p><p>“I did not,” he says, wonderfully dry, “she wasn’t fearsome at all. She might be a little more fearsome now, perhaps. I haven’t seen her since - well, in over ten years.”</p><p>“But what was she <em>like</em>?” Linnea asks impatiently, prompting a low chuckle. “I’m finally in the position to hear some first hand accounts of the illusive Hero of Ferelden, and all Leliana will say are mysterious things like ‘<em>she’s my closest friend</em>’ - which doesn’t tell me <em>anything</em>, by the way - and all you do is blush and say vague things about her being kind.”</p><p>Cullen, right on cue, blushes. It’s most noticeable on the tips of his ears due to the cream, but she can see the flush across his cheeks too. “I, er -“</p><p>“Was there something between you?” She hasn’t quite felt like she could ask this before, but other than the colourful display on his face, he doesn’t look as profoundly uncomfortable as he has previously. She gasps with mock scandal. “Are you saving her reputation by covering up your illicit love affair?”</p><p>He finds his tongue again. “Maker no. Of course not. That would’ve been completely -“ He sighs at Linnea’s wide grin, but it’s not without humour. “... You’re teasing me.”</p><p>“You really do make it easy,” she tells him, and he grumbles but pulls her closer, so can’t be all that put out. “But you did carry a torch for her, I take it?”</p><p>“I… there was a youthful infatuation.”</p><p>“Let me guess,” Linnea says drolly, “she was <em>kind</em>.”</p><p>Cullen raises a sheepish eyebrow. “Kindness is an admirable quality.”</p><p>She grins to mask the pang of loss that talking about kindness always provokes in her; Lydia was the kindest person she knew. The word has become synonymous with her late mentor in her mind. “Then Maker knows what you see in me.”</p><p>“Nonsense, you’re very kind.”</p><p>“Excuse me?” She pauses for a moment to give him a skeptical look, even as she finds that she’s desperate just to take him at his word. He can’t know just how much that particular word means to her. “I’m glad that we’re past this now, of course - but <em>surely</em> you haven’t forgotten how cruel I was to you.”</p><p>“You were upset,” he says, ignoring the disbelieving noise she makes. “I wouldn’t say you were cruel at all, I’ve always thought you were kind.”</p><p>“Now, that can’t be true. It seems you’re also forgetting how much you disliked me when we first met.”</p><p>“I’ve never disliked you,” Cullen says, and he does sound genuinely bewildered, much to her own confusion. Perhaps he thought he was far too subtle for her to have noticed.</p><p>“If this is your attempt not to offend me, then I assure you I made no such concessions, so please don’t bother.”</p><p>“If we’re all to judge ourselves on our worst moments, then I’m not sure there’s hope for any of us,” he mutters, not moving his head but averting his eyes downwards. She has clearly touched a nerve. “You were perhaps less than tactful,” he continues carefully, after a moment or two. “But I thought you were kind before that, and it did nothing to change my opinion of you.”</p><p>“I… try,” she says quietly, “I suppose I just feel like I fail a lot more than I succeed.”</p><p>“That you can say that as you’re wasting your time helping a sick man cover up his inadequacies is ridiculous.”</p><p>“Yes, this is altruism indeed,” she says flatly, “most people <em>hate </em>spending time in close proximity to handsome men they’re interested in. Truly, I’m an inspiration.”</p><p>“I can give countless other examples,” he tells her crisply, but moves his thumb again in comforting circles on her waist. “In Haven -“</p><p>“Please don’t,” she says hurriedly, suitably mortified. “You can’t seriously tell me that you weren’t mistrustful of me back then, Cullen.”</p><p>“Briefly, perhaps.”</p><p>“But we disagreed constantly!”</p><p>“Whereas we agree on everything now,” he says wryly, earning a half hearted glare. “Even on my recollection of my own thoughts, it would seem.”</p><p>“I was so very sure you disliked me.”</p><p>“Then I did you a disservice,” he says, so seriously it makes her breath catch, “and should apologise for my own behaviour.”</p><p>“If I’d known then what I know now,” she starts, and then thinks better of the embarrassing earnestness of what she was about to say, and buries it hurriedly. She brushes a thumb over his cheek with a smile. “If I’d known that a snowball to the face was the way to get your attention…”</p><p>“If that’s a threat,” he says, sounding amused, “then I should warn you, I grew up with three siblings.”</p><p>“Fighting talk, commander. I’ll bear that in mind, but snowballs will have to wait - there. I think with a bit of powder it’ll be done.” Linnea smiles brightly. “And then I suppose I’ll - well, I’ll leave you to it, and see you this evening.” She tries not to look too obviously dismayed at the thought. “Pass me the brush?”</p><p>He reaches behind him to retrieve it, apparently going to great lengths to avoid removing his left hand from her waist by the uncomfortable looking way he twists. When she takes the brush from his right hand, he immediately settles it on her waist as well. The reminder of yet more time ahead of them diligently standing apart seems to have dismayed him too.</p><p>Linnea tilts his chin up again and he closes his eyes without needing to be prompted. For some reason she can’t quite put her finger on, she blushes, and brushes the powder over his eyelids in silence for a few moments. She starts to softly pat away the excess with a fingertip at the corner of his eyes, but he still doesn’t open them, and it’s that which seems to embolden her to say something she’d find far too embarrassing were he looking directly at her.</p><p>“I really didn’t think this would be quite so difficult,” she confesses, quietly and a little sheepishly. </p><p>Cullen’s fingers tighten gently on her waist. “Halamshiral? The politicking?”</p><p>“I suppose,” she says vaguely, thinking more of the guilt she feels every time she looks at Josie, or the way her heart sinks when she sees him looking miserable across a ballroom and she can do absolutely nothing about it. Maybe even the way he sometimes looks at her, like he’s remembering that she almost belonged somewhere almost like this. “All of it. I just feel like we’ve been here a few hundred years. Or maybe that’s just how much I’ve aged since we arrived.”</p><p>He chuckles. “I know the feeling.”</p><p>“It’ll be over soon,” she says, not quite sure who she’s reassuring. She can’t draw this out any longer, as comforting at it is to be held loosely in his hands and to fuss over him cosmetically in lieu of being able to do anything else, so she gives a few last sweeps of the brush and reluctantly declares the task finished. “There. I’m not sure I’ve done a masterful job of it, but it should satisfy Leliana, at least.”</p><p>“Thank you, I appreciate the help.”</p><p>“You haven’t seen my handiwork yet,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Let me get a mirror -“</p><p>She leans over to place the brush back down on the table and look for a hand mirror, but once the brush is out of her hands, Cullen stands up properly from where he’d been partially leaning against the table, hands still on her waist, and kisses her. It’s sudden enough that she grabs for his shoulders to steady herself, but not at all unwelcome. One of his hands moves to push gently at the small of her back and she’s only too obliging to press herself closer to him and run one hand through his hair again, still slightly crisp from whatever it is he’s been using to keep it so neat.</p><p>Linnea smiles into the kiss as his hair sticks out messily from where she’s disturbed it, but neither of them pull away. Cullen just keeps one hand pressed on her back, and the other finds that sweet spot at the back of her hairline that makes her distinctly disinclined to ever pull back. The upside to catching him off-duty, as it were, is the distinct lack of gloves. He’s still wearing the jacket he’s at best ambivalent about despite how much it suits him, although it’s unbuttoned and hanging loose at the front. She takes the opportunity to tuck a hand inside and place it on his chest and the freshly starched shirt underneath.</p><p>Something changes then; she can feel it in his heartbeat beneath her hand and in the way her own heart is racing. Her kisses become somewhat messier as the thought occurs to her with renewed clarity: they’re alone. There’s no one keeping tabs on them. They know exactly where Leliana and Josie are, and the attendants won’t be in to tend to the fire until it’s dark, so they’re comprehensively alone. They’re alone, and his mouth is warm and soft, and his hand on her back is against her skin now, having found his way under the back of her jacket.</p><p>They haven’t done anything except kiss. They haven’t had time, but they haven’t made time, either. If this is how it happens, after months of dancing around each other, if it’s <em>here</em> in Halamshiral - she can’t help but find that ludicrously funny. Not that she’s expecting anything, not that him kissing her so intently means anything, not that she’s presuming anything at all. </p><p>Not that she’s <em>objecting, </em>either.</p><p>Linnea doesn’t feel entirely capable of rational thought, so she’s only half aware of pushing at the shoulders of his jacket gently, as if to test the waters. He’s only too obliging, shrugging it off under her fingers and letting her throw it on the table. He doesn’t stop kissing her for a moment and she feels emboldened enough to slide her hands beneath his shirt and pull him closer. It takes her a few moments in her giddy obliviousness to notice that he’s undoing the top buttons of her own jacket, only registering it properly when he dips his mouth to the curve of her jaw, the high collar of her jacket pushed away.</p><p>She makes a frankly embarrassing noise of surprise as he kisses his way softly down to her collarbone, and when his lips make their way back to hers, she runs a finger over his skin along the waistband of his trousers. He inhales sharply. His formal trousers are a vaguely military cut, and she brushes her hand over them again to get a sense of how one would - if one were so <em>inclined</em> - find one’s way inside, feeling something vaguely buckle-like that draws her attention - </p><p>- <em>ah</em>. Perhaps not a buckle, then, but definitely not a discouraging find.</p><p>Cullen catches her wrist and pulls it back a little where he holds it gently but firmly. Despite this intervention, he still kisses her for a few more languid seconds, and even when he draws back, it’s only a few inches. They look at each other for a few moments, her heartbeat thudding in her ears.</p><p>“I’m not sure we should continue,” he starts hoarsely, “it’s just - we’re <em>here</em>, and I’m not - I’m not at my best, and -“</p><p>Linnea tries to steady her spinning head, nodding as seriously as she can while she clings to him for dear life. “No, of course.”</p><p>“It’s not that I don’t <em>want</em> -“</p><p>“Yes,” she says delicately, “I can… see that.”</p><p>“Indeed,” Cullen says, with a wry self-deprecating amusement that delights and surprises her. She’d supposed he would be embarrassed at best and ashamed at worst by being given away by his anatomy, hence her caution; he’s not a man who seems to delight in many things beyond his express control. She doesn’t even bother to hide her grin, and he reaches up with one hand to brush some powder sheepishly from her nose.</p><p>She takes a breath to compose herself. “I’m sorry about that, I think I got a little carried away.”</p><p>“Please don’t apologise,” he murmurs, and brings the hand he’s still holding up to kiss her knuckles. She feels just a little closer to that liquid state once more. </p><p>“Oh, good. I’m finding it difficult to be all that remorseful.”</p><p>Cullen chuckles, but then looks down at their hands, his expression turning serious. “There are a lot of things about me that you don’t know,” he says, more to his feet than anything. “You might feel differently about this if you -“</p><p>Linnea places one hand along his jawline, her thumb on his cheek. “Of course I wouldn’t.”</p><p>“You might,” he says, “there are things you should know, but I -“</p><p>“Cullen,” she says firmly, tilting his chin up so she can look at him. “You have no obligation to tell me anything. I was just trying to stick my hands down your trousers, not trying to make you spill your innermost thoughts. My motivations really weren’t that complex.”</p><p>That gets a smile. “Yes, well.”</p><p>“It must’ve been the jacket.”</p><p>He laughs quietly again, leaning in to press a kiss between her eyes, just on the bridge of her nose. The placement doesn’t go unnoticed. “I shall have to thank Josephine.”</p><p>“You should let her dress you more often.” Linnea makes a show of straightening out his shirt and brushing down the shoulders though she hadn’t really dishevelled him too much; it’s mostly to amuse him. “There: you’re presentable once more.”</p><p>“In a few more minutes, perhaps,” he says, gesturing vaguely downwards, and she breaks into a fresh grin of delight. </p><p>“Well, we’ve a few hours until dinner,” she says, tucking her arms around his waist. “I suppose I’ll need to do some damage control before then,” she adds glumly, “and then suffer through another evening.”</p><p>Cullen half-smiles. “Focus on the food?”</p><p>“I always do.” Linnea looks up at him with her own smile, reluctant to let go, and lets out a melodramatic sigh. “Can you die from not kissing someone you really want to kiss?”</p><p>“I don’t imagine it’s a common cause of death, no.”</p><p>“I just feel,” she says, with her best mournful expression, “that perhaps I might.”</p><p>“That won’t do.”</p><p>“It won’t do at all.” She sighs melodramatically again. “Many more of these dinners and I might simply keel over face first into my plate, just like that. Time to find a new Inquisitor.”</p><p>“How very worrying,” he says, and presses a chaste kiss to her lips obligingly before taking her face in his hands, cool and steady. “Not much longer,” he murmurs, and she keeps those words close to hand over the next few days like a worry stone, turning them over in her mind and remembering the way he silently pressed his lips to her nose.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This whole chapter was supposed to only be 5k of another chapter, but (there's a recurring theme here, you might notice) then it was suddenly 15k (?!) and I didn't want to cut any of it, so I'm just setting it loose on the internet as it is!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. v.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Linnea prepares for the siege of Adamant.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The chapter deals a lot more closely with Cullen's past trauma, so just a gentle warning for that coming up.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Grey Warden certainly seems to make himself at home in Skyhold quite effectively.</p><p>Linnea isn’t exactly sure what she’d expected, except that he’d be accustomed to solitude and the rough comforts of a transient lifestyle. She has always had quite a vivid mental picture of the Hero of Ferelden, but the other Wardens have been far more vague in her mind. She’d never been quite as taken with the idea of Alistair as she was with the idea of Amell, for obvious reasons, and she’d had only nebulous images of him as generically large and intimidating, which have only solidified once Blackwall joined them. He has obligingly provided a very believable template: gruff but principled, grizzled in a neat sort of way, and inclined to keeping a respectful distance from the rest of society.</p><p>She’d been quite happy to imagine this Warden acquaintance of Hawke’s as being cut from the same cloth, even before she knew about his identity. Learning his name didn't do anything to dissuade her - he’s a hardened war hero who <em>literally killed an archdemon and ended a Blight</em>, and on top of that she found him living in a cave having evidently cleared it out quite efficiently of a large volume of armed and dangerous smugglers. </p><p>The man they find instead of Blackwall’s larger, gruffer twin doesn’t even have a beard. He looks well-travelled and tired, and she gets the impression he’s currently leaner than he tends to under better circumstances, though he’s still tall and broad enough to look more or less like the type of heroic figure she’d expected. It’s strange, though - with his short hair, light stubble and high cheekbones, he reminds her more of her brothers than anything. </p><p>That surprise over, however, she presumes his mannerisms won’t be quite so incongruent with her expectations. </p><p>So <em>no</em>, she doesn't expect him to stop by the door of the kitchen and inhale with a groan of rapturous delight for at least ten seconds. (“<em>Maker, is that lamb? I </em>love<em> lamb. Please tell me you have potatoes this far up the Frostbacks, I could </em>murder<em> some lamb and buttery potatoes </em>-“)</p><p>Nor does she expect him to greet Leliana not with a handshake or a bow but by wrapping his arms around her and squeezing her with such enthusiasm that her feet actually leave the ground. She especially didn’t expect Leliana to allow this, but she’s seeing a new side to her Spymaster since Halamshiral, so perhaps she shouldn’t be quite so surprised. Beneath that hood there’s someone quite different, sometimes, and this someone not only allows an old friend and travelling companion to sweep her up but laughs with delight as it happens.</p><p>For some reason, it sets off a deeply melancholy chain of thoughts in Linnea’s mind; she imagines herself and her companions ten years from now, Corypheus defeated and the world put to rights, and has thin hopes that they’ll have something like this to return to. Are their friendships so enduring? She tries to imagine Blackwall picking Vivienne up and this touching scene in her head comes to a crashing halt, followed instead by a series of increasingly fanciful scenarios. Solas and Sera embracing fondly. Cole and Vivienne greeting each other warmly. Dorian ruffling Sera’s hair? Perhaps. </p><p>Too stunned to do much else, Linnea just watches this unexpected display of affection without comment, trying not at all subtly to catch Cullen’s eye, but he seems to be determined to pay as little attention to Alistair as is humanly possible. It feels as though he’s been holding even Linnea at arm’s length since they returned to Skyhold, but this stands out as particularly odd even so. </p><p>At least, it stands out to Linnea. Not everyone has been paying such close attention to Cullen’s increasing brusqueness. Nor have those who have noticed found themselves quite so deflated by it either, she shouldn’t think. She’s been doing her best to shove that embarrassing, dismayed feeling somewhere very deep down, which is absolutely a healthy and measured response.</p><p>Instead of meeting her gaze and sharing incredulity at Leliana’s reaction, Cullen mutters his way through a terse greeting and exchanges awkward pleasantries, and then he’s gone. The Warden doesn’t seem bothered by this rather impolite display, and given the lack of introductions given by Leliana, perhaps they know each other. In either case, Alistair seems to know not to take it personally, perhaps thinking than this is just the general calibre of Cullen’s manners. </p><p>Linnea is more inclined to chalk this rudeness up to the bruises beneath Cullen’s eyes. She’d hoped that returning from Orlais would improve his health, but if anything he seems to have deteriorated. As with all of the periods where he’s most visibly struggling, she finds him at his most distant just as she’s at her most anxious to help in whatever small way she can. </p><p>If he needs time and space because he’s unwell, then that’s understandable. She understands. She’s the very picture of serene understanding. </p><p>She’s not losing any sleep over it. She’s not lying awake, or pacing the grounds at night, fretfully replaying every interaction they’ve had to dissect all the things she said and did wrong. That would be absurd, obviously, given that Cullen is quite clearly struggling with ill health and it would be laughably selfish to make this about <em>her</em>.</p><p>It’s not as though he’s avoiding her. She can reliably steal a few moments of his time now and then, and she can wrangle a smile from him easily enough. She can wrangle a kiss, too, without much prompting, but then there’s always something that requires his attention, or a place he has to excuse himself to. </p><p>He isn’t lying when he makes these excuses, she’s fairly sure of that. Perhaps he doesn’t make any effort to wriggle out of his obligations on her account, but she can’t exactly fault him for being conscientious. Perhaps he isn’t precisely holding her at arm’s length, but he isn’t letting her get any closer, either. That’s fine. It’s <em>fine</em>. Expecting the opposite is a piece of foolishness she wasn’t aware she was allowing herself, but she’ll have to keep a tighter rein on her own feelings, that’s all. </p><p>Small comfort though it is, he certainly isn’t lying, not the way he lies when Alistair shows up at the end of their War Council and Cullen makes a dozen transparent excuses to leave that are almost embarrassing to witness. The Warden still doesn’t so much as blink at this rudeness, which is the first reason Linnea starts to suspect he has a rather thick skin. </p><p>The second is that she catches him bickering - and bickering <em>is</em> the only word for it - with Lady Morrigan in the courtyard. He settles down in a chair beside her as she tries to read and peppers her with borderline inane questions - Maker, so <em>many</em> questions - until the always cool and collected Morrigan finally snaps at him. Alistair looks as unruffled at this as Linnea is surprised. He even looks a little pleased with himself.</p><p>He killed an <em>archdemon</em>. He’s a <em>hardened war hero. </em>She’s been hearing stories about his bravery and skill for an entire decade. She detests it when people do this to her, of course, when they build her up as the Inquisitor or the Herald into something she can never be, but - but - well, this is <em>different</em> -</p><p>On one of her restless evening walks, Linnea finds him sitting with his legs dangling over the edge of the battlements, a half-eaten plate of chicken legs on his knee. He spots her hovering behind him and offers the plate with a polite reluctance that she longs to laugh at, but more or less holds herself in check. She shakes her head with her lips pressed together. One good thing about someone who’s quite used to being in the company of infamous people - or being infamous himself - is that he’s not at all intimidated or nervous in front of her. Or anyone at all, apparently, given he’s braved the kitchen staff and come away bearing fruit. </p><p>She gestures at the plate in his hands, quite forgetting an ordinary greeting. “How on earth did you persuade Elva to part with that sort of spread?” </p><p>Alistair shrugs. “I asked.”</p><p>“You asked?”</p><p>“I asked <em>nicely</em>.”</p><p>Linnea is rapidly losing control of her suppressed grin, so lets it loose properly as she takes a seat next to him on the stone. “She’s not exactly known for her generosity.”</p><p>“No? She seems very nice.” At Linnea’s raised eyebrows, he grins sheepishly. “I’ve been especially complimentary about her cooking, particularly her stews, which I think went down a treat, but - I imagine you’re not here for tips on charming extra food from the kitchen staff. Not that you've got such an inconvenient appetite, I don’t suppose, I’ve got my special, magical Warden blood to thank for the bottomless pit that is my stomach - “ He waves a chicken leg inarticulately. “ - But I’ll stop rambling before I spill more important Warden secrets and become even <em>more</em> of a traitor. How can I help you?”</p><p>“Well,” Linnea starts, and then blushes, much to her annoyance. She rubs her hands on her cheeks and changes tack before she can embarrass herself further. “Preparations for Adamant are going well, I believe.”</p><p>“That’s good to hear. I’ve told Cullen - er, your Commander, that is - everything I know, I’m afraid. If you were hoping I might have more helpful information -“</p><p>“Not at all, I’m sure you’ve been invaluable.”</p><p>“Right.” Alistair drags out the word as he looks at her sideways. “So you’re here to…?”</p><p>“I just wondered -” she starts again, feeling her cheeks growing hot once more but determined not to talk herself out of it this time. In the face of his easy talkative manner, she feels suddenly quite self conscious. “Well, as you probably know, I mostly grew up in Ostwick Circle before all this, and - this is rather embarrassing, actually - when I was younger, during the Blight -“</p><p>“Ah, of course,” he says, with an undercurrent of warm amusement that embarrasses her even more. “You’re going to ask about <em>her</em>, aren’t you?”</p><p>“No one will tell me anything good!” Linnea says, much more loudly and fervently than she intends, prompting a full-bodied chuckle from Alistair. “Leliana’s determined to be mysterious, I’m fairly sure Lady Morrigan doesn’t care for me all that much -“</p><p>“Oh, she’s just like that, I wouldn’t take it personally.” Alistair chuckles again. “<em>Lady</em> Morrigan, imagine that. As it happens, you’re in luck. I’m not nearly as mysterious as Leliana; I couldn’t be even if I tried, and anyway, I <em>like</em> talking about Aisling. I’ve been reliably informed the difficult part is getting me to shut up.”</p><p>“I was completely obsessed with the idea of her for years,” Linnea says, her mouth apparently determined to embarrass her even without her brain’s consent. She’s been given the carte blanche she’s always dreamed of having, and here she is, waxing lyrical about her teenage idolisation. “The idea of a mage - a <em>Circle</em> mage - saving the world, stopping a Blight! I’m convinced the First Enchanter was finding inventive ways to stop Warden recruiters coming to Ostwick, the place would’ve been practically empty if they had. I’d have signed my life away in an instant.”</p><p>“I suppose I can see that.” Alistair looks at her thoughtfully. “And now, here you are…”</p><p>“Yes, the irony is not lost on me.”</p><p>He laughs then, but it’s rather a sad laugh. “History does have a habit of repeating itself, doesn’t it? At least that’s what you rely on as a Warden, at any rate. I wish you could meet her, not just because then she wouldn’t be Maker-knows-where getting herself into all kinds of trouble without me, I think you’d probably have a lot to talk about.”</p><p>“I didn’t know that you two were…” She trails off politely, not wanting to overstep any boundaries, but Alistair just smiles beatifically. “Not that it wasn’t in some of the stories, but I thought it was just romantic nonsense added in to make the whole thing more dramatic - er, no offence meant,” she adds quickly, but Alistair just nods sheepishly as if pleading guilty to the charge of <em>romantic nonsense</em> nonetheless. “I’ve always wondered: is it forbidden? Fraternisation amongst Wardens, that is.”</p><p>“Officially? I’m not sure, actually,” he says, “but even if it is, I don’t think they’d dare tell her not to do anything. There’s a lot of mileage in ‘oh, don’t you remember that one time I stopped the Blight and killed an archdemon?’ Shuts them right up, let me tell you.”</p><p>Linnea tucks one leg beneath her and reaches over to take a piece of chicken as Alistair holds the plate out absent-mindedly. It’s starting to get dark, and she’s probably late for some meeting or other. She vaguely remembers promising Leliana an hour or so of her time. “What <em>is </em>she like?”</p><p>“Aisling, she’s - well, I want it on the record that I’m absolutely punching above my weight, for a start. Not exactly what you asked, but just for posterity, you understand.”</p><p>“Of course,” Linnea says, biting down on another grin. “Consider it noted.”</p><p>“Hawke and she are cousins or something like that, so there’s <em>some</em> family resemblance. Was it cousins? I can never remember, they haven’t actually met, funny how that worked out. Aisling has the most beautiful eyes, and…” He trails off with a quiet laugh. “Again, that isn’t exactly what you asked. Let me try again: we were so <em>very </em>young when we met, you know. I’d known her all of two days and then suddenly everything came falling down around our ears, and she just -“ He gestures outwards helplessly. “ - Just - made it work. Practically by herself, through sheer determination. I was about as much use as a pair of wet socks at the beginning, about as cheerful too, and she never even complained about having to carry my weight. She didn’t let me wallow, either. Picked me up, dusted me off and put me to work, and kept me focused.”</p><p>“In the stories she was always so ruthless, for lack of a better word.”</p><p>“I suppose I have made her sound a bit ruthless, haven’t I?” Alistair is gazing out across Skyhold without focusing on anything in particular. “That’s not quite right. Don’t get me wrong, she doesn’t suffer fools - except me, for some mysterious reason - and she’s had to do a lot of things that look pretty ruthless from the outside, but she’s not like that. I don’t think you can save the world without caring about it, otherwise why would you bother? <em>‘No killing darkspawn for me today, thank you very much, I’d much rather just stay safe and warm.’</em>” He gives Linnea a sideways look. “Unless it’s just complete megalomania, of course.”</p><p>She affects her best deadpan expression. “That’s it. You’ve seen right through me.”</p><p>Alistair grins, and they both reach for another chicken leg. “I did wonder, to be honest. What kind of person wants to lead an <em>Inquisition</em>? It sounds very ominous. I was half expecting thumb screws and getting my fingernails pulled out one by one, but I’ll have you know no one’s so much as questioned me threateningly, not <em>once</em>. Very strange operation you’re running here.”</p><p>“I’ll be sure to pass on that feedback,” Linnea tells him solemnly, and then sighs as she swings her legs a little over the edge of the battlements, scuffing her toes together. “I hope I really <em>do</em> care about the world, and I’m not just power mad and <em>think</em> I care. Is that a thing that happens? I worry sometimes that I’m just deluding myself.”</p><p>“I don’t think a real megalomaniac would bother worrying about it, so you’re probably fine.” Alistair gives her a warm and reassuring smile, but spoils the effect by taking a massive mouthful of chicken. He talks through his chewing in a way that really does suggest he’s spent far too much time alone as of late. “I always thought we had no choice but to take the Blight all on our shoulders, being the only Grey Wardens left in Ferelden, but I’d say that thing on your hand takes it to another level.”</p><p>Linnea lifts up the hand with the Anchor and closes her fingers around it. “I suppose leaving the world to be saved by someone else was never really an option.”</p><p>“See? They’re the words of someone who cares. People who don’t would never talk like that. You can always spot the potential deserters pretty quickly.”</p><p>“Deserters? In the Wardens?” Linnea leans forward with interest, though there’s also a small part of her that still manages to feel disappointed every time her childhood heroes are revealed to be fallible. You’d think she’d have learned. </p><p>“You wouldn’t believe how many deserters we get, even after everything they’ve gone through to get there. It’s not that they’re <em>bad </em>people, I don’t think, but -“ He shrugs. “I suppose it just turns out to be too much for them. I can’t talk, really. Aisling and I are trying to find a cure for the real Calling so we can skip merrily into the sunset and take a break from all the endless murdering. Everyone has their limits.”</p><p>“What happens to deserters in the Wardens?”</p><p>“Depends.” His expression turns grim. “Under Aisling? Nothing. But they say she’s too kind.”</p><p>Linnea snorts. “<em>Too kind</em>.”</p><p>He raises his eyebrows in surprise. “I hadn’t pegged you for a harsh disciplinarian.”</p><p>“Maker, no, it’s just - that’s all Cullen told me about her. He said she was kind, but I’ve never really got anything else out of him.” </p><p>“Ah.”</p><p>“Do you know him?” Linnea considers him curiously. “You seemed to have met before, and I thought maybe when you were a Templar-“</p><p>“I was never <em>actually</em> a Templar, not technically. I was recruited before I completed my training. Maker, I’m going to be correcting people about that until the day I die, aren’t I? Either way, I didn’t meet Cullen when I was not-a-Templar, I met him during the Blight.” Alistair pasues for a moment; the first time she’s seen him make any particular effort to filter any of the words supplied by his brain to his mouth. “How well do you know the Commander?”</p><p>“Reasonably well, I suppose,” Linnea says, and then blushes furiously into the growing dark, which sadly isn’t yet dark enough to let it go unnoticed. It can’t be at all hard to read, and Alistair raises an eyebrow slightly but says nothing. “I know he was stationed in Ferelden during the Blight, anyway.”</p><p>“Well, the Circle certainly had a bad time of it. It was in a sorry state by the time we got there, and Aisling lost a lot of friends. We made it before it was too late for a lot of them, though, Cullen included. It was… uncomfortable, to tell you the truth.”</p><p>“Because he had a soft spot for her?”</p><p>“Ah, so you <em>do</em> know.” Alistair grins. “Most people that meet Aisling have a soft spot for her, I’m pretty sure. Unless, you know, she’s trying to kill them. Even then, I bet they still -“</p><p>“Were they… involved?” Linnea cuts across him, unable to hold back her curiosity. She feels a little disloyal to ask this again after Cullen has already answered it in his own sheepish fashion, but it’s not as though she’s trying to catch him in a lie. She’s just hoping to glean something from the other side of his ‘youthful infatuation’.</p><p>Alistair shakes his head, still grinning. “No, they weren’t. I think she liked him well enough, but can you imagine? Her being a mage, and him one of the Templars in the same Circle, I think he was actually selected to be at her <em>Harrowing</em> to do the deed if she -“ He stops abruptly with his mouth slightly open, looking directly at Linnea with an air of realisation. “Er, I mean, not that I’m judging anyone’s circumstances, of course.”</p><p>Linnea flushes but looks haughtily back at him. “Is that so different to you and -“</p><p>“<em>Completely </em>different,” he protests weakly, “but again, not that there’s anything wrong with - I’ll just stop talking, shall I?”</p><p>She bites down on her bottom lip to stop from grinning, and takes the last chicken leg he sheepishly offers her. She likes him. She can’t help it. He isn’t what she expected, but she likes him better for it. </p><p>“Anyway,” she says, very grateful for a change of subject. “Any tips from someone who’s successfully saved the world to someone who’s doing their best to save it again? Advice? I’ll take anything.”</p><p>Alistair snorts through a mouthful of chicken. “Advice from me? You’re the one with a secret mountain fort, a special magical hand, and a personal army. We had a dog and an angry bog witch who could turn into a giant spider. Oh, and Leliana, but you’ve already got her, and she’s far scarier than she used to be.”</p><p>“No tips on avoiding megalomania?”</p><p>“If a secret mountain fort doesn’t do it, then I’m not sure what will.” He smiles, his expression turned melancholy again. “I’m not very good at giving advice, Aisling would say - well, what would she say? She’d do a much better job at this.” He falls silent for a moment as they both watch Dennet lead a horse across the courtyard in the fading light. “I’m all out of profound and wise things to say, I’m afraid.”</p><p>Linnea smiles. “I’ll settle for the less than profound, if that’s all you’re offering.”</p><p>“As the Inquisitor insists,” Alistair says with a shrug. “Well, er - always pack more cheese than you think you’re going to need. It makes your socks stink but a bit of butter on a blister stops your boots rubbing in a pinch. Never leave any food unattended around a mabari -”</p><p>“I’m sorry, butter?”</p><p>“You mock me now, but wait until that’s all you have and you’ve got another ten miles still to march. It’s not a glamorous business, saving the world. Although -“ He gives her another of those sideways looks. “ - <em>we</em> didn’t have a fancy castle. I don’t imagine you have months on end where you’ve almost forgotten what a bath even looks like.”</p><p>“You’re rather spoiling all those heroic stories I’ve been so fond of over the past decade, you know. Now I’ll just imagine you unwashed and pungent, with greasy, buttery feet.” Linnea sighs with exaggerated disappointment as Alistair laughs. “Was any of it like in the stories?”</p><p>He grins. “Is any of it for you?”</p><p>“Well, not always.” Linnea gestures out at Skyhold in the sunset with a half-smile, a sight she dares anyone to take in and not feel as though they were in an epic, romantic tale. “But sometimes, yes.”</p><p>“Sometimes,” he agrees softly, “I’ll give you that.”</p><p>“Which parts? Surely the killing blow to the archdemon -“</p><p>“I’m afraid I’m probably going to disappoint you even more,” Alistair says, “but mostly the ‘romantic nonsense’, to tell you the truth. Of course - the archdemon, ending the Blight, all of that - of course that was an incredible victory, but my memories of that get a little more vague every day. This is sort of blasphemous to say, but you stab one thing with a sword, you’ve stabbed them all, and <em>by the Maker</em>, have I done a lot of stabbing. The things I won’t forget, though...“ He trails off with a wistful smile, and Linnea is almost embarrassed herself by how plainly he wears his emotions on his sleeve. It’s not the plainness itself so much as how willing he is to do so, as if the thought of hiding it hasn’t even crossed his mind. It’s not something she’s all that used to, and for some reason, it shames her. “Well, I’m a simple man.”</p><p>“You haven’t disappointed me at all,” she says after a long moment, and shakes her head at his snort of disbelief. “I’d like to think that in ten years' time I’ll remember the - the friendships I’ve made, much more clearly than all the fighting and death.”</p><p>“It really was a bad time to fall in love,” Alistair says wryly, sending a quick amused glance her way. “Dreadful timing, all things considered. There’s not much about well buttered feet that could be considered seductive.”</p><p>She lets out an amused huff of laughter. “Is that your advice, then? Don’t fall in love?” She’s embarrassed the moment the words leave her mouth, the question sounding far less like a joke than she intended. </p><p>“It probably should be,” he says, looking at her with a grin. “But - no, not at all. Meeting Aisling is the best thing that ever happened to me. How’s that for romantic nonsense?”</p><p>Linnea’s mouth is suddenly very dry as she returns his grin, shamed again by his sincerity and wrong-footed by his answer to the advice she didn’t mean to ask for. </p><p>“Well,” she says, “it certainly makes a good story.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>For something with a name so dramatic as ‘The Harrowing’, it initially somewhat failed to live up to Linnea’s expectations.</p><p>Her particular friend Renn, a truly incorrigible eavesdropper, had found out the day before when she was lurking in the library. Whatever else she’d also happened to overhear proved to be far more interesting than Linnea’s upcoming trial, and so she’d failed to mention it until just before lights out in the apprentice dormitory.</p><p>“Looks like you’re up tomorrow then, Nins,” she’d said cheerfully, almost as an afterthought, and then rolled her eyes at Linnea’s panicked expression. “Oh, you’ll be fine,” she insisted impatiently, “everyone says so.”</p><p>Then she rolled over and fell asleep quite untroubled by the news that her best friend would be facing a dangerous magical trial the next morning, leaving Linnea wide awake to worry the whole night away in terrified solitude. </p><p>She made a thousand contingency plans in the darkness, imagining the worst at every turn. Another of her fellow apprentices had been telling everyone that the Harrowing involved some kind of stand off with a magical version of yourself animated by a demon, which sounded really quite plausible given all she knew. So when they lead her into the room, exhausted and scared but quietly resolved to rip her ‘own’ throat out if necessary, the single cup of lyrium instead of a demon wearing her face was quite perplexing. </p><p>Instead of a mirror image showdown, she’d woken up back in her old bedroom in the Trevelyan estate with only the haziest of notions that perhaps this didn’t really logically follow on from losing consciousness on the stone floor of Ostwick Circle. It was a gorgeously imagined likeness, updated subtly from her childhood memories so as to feel like the room she might have had still, had things gone differently. </p><p>Linnea was pondering on that quite lazily in the beautifully soft pillows and sheets when her mother swept into the room, with as gentle and loving a smile as Linnea had ever seen on her face.</p><p>(“That’s when I ought to have realised,” she told Renn later with a bitter laugh, because being sworn to secrecy was never going to be sufficient when it came to them. She never even considered keeping it from her. “She’s never been pleased to see me in my entire life.”)</p><p>“Darling,” her mother said, sitting on the bed and taking her hand. “Oh, <em>darling</em>, it’s so good to have you back with us. You did so very well,” she continued, her expression so warm and her eyes brimming with tears, “passing that dreadful test so you could be cured and brought back to where you really belong. I hardly dared hope, but I’m so <em>proud </em>of you, darling, I’m so very proud.”</p><p>So that was it. That was what the desire demon conjured for her, the pretty little fantasy it thought would be enough to tempt her. Harrowing? Maybe not. Mortifying? Absolutely.</p><p>So then Linnea, in that pliable dreamlike state that makes the Fade so dangerous, had happily let herself be dressed in fine clothes and fed fine food, and have her brothers and father dote on her without the merest hint of fear or disgust. </p><p>There were suitors clamouring for her hand, of course - an embarrassing additional detail that she relayed to Renn with dismay - and if the improbability of her family’s sudden change in disposition weren’t obvious enough, surely the parade of devastatingly attractive strangers climbing over each other for the barest portion of her attention should’ve been a clue. Not least because her mother would never have picked such a selection of genders, however beautiful the candidates, as her determination for an heir would no doubt have taken precedence over Linnea’s own cheerful lack of preference. </p><p>Embarrassingly enough, it took more than that for the penny to drop. In the end it was the wine she spilled carelessly down her front, which she dabbed at hurriedly with a handkerchief and thought nothing of it until she looked back down to see the stain completely disappeared. </p><p>(“Saved by my own clumsiness, how <em>mortifying</em>,” she told Renn with self-deprecating despair. “I should have known at once my mother would never have tolerated that sort of behaviour -“</p><p>And Renn, fiercely loyal Renn, born to two mages and having absolutely no notion of anything beyond the circular walls she’d always lived in, had still made sympathetic noises and laughed in all the right places. She deserved so much more than that. Linnea hadn’t even stopped to think that she was describing things and scenarios that, while out of her reach, were almost beyond Renn’s imaginings.)</p><p>The demon knew at once that she was suspicious, and just her luck to be paired with a lazy demon, it hadn’t even bothered to keep up the pretence for a second longer than necessary, so the elaborate estate and her false family faded away immediately, and Linnea was left looking just into its horrible, mocking eyes. From there, it was at least simple, if rather more violent, and she woke up to the First Enchanter’s relieved face with the distinct feeling of: <em>was that really it?</em></p><p>(“Hardly what I’d call <em>harrowing</em>,” she told Renn scornfully, “it’s not as if that’s even the life I’d want, what a pathetic vision to be offered -“ Her voice wavered then, and she’d wanted the Fade to swallow her up again with embarrassment. Did she really want that? Did the demon not bother to dig deep enough into her psyche to find anything of worth, or did it dig deeper than she’d ever allowed herself, and found something ugly and shameful and true?</p><p>“Oh, Nins,” Renn said gently, “you’re allowed to want things, you know.” Renn who hardly knew what was out there for the wanting, Renn who barely had a family at all let alone memories of an estate for a demon to conjure up, Renn who rubbed her back and listened to her without judgement. Renn whose life ended on the floor of the phylactery cellar ten years later because the world spared no compassion for people like her.)</p><p>The Fade has a way of getting its hooks into the corners of your mind, seeping like water into stonework that cracks it open with the frost. Perhaps the immediate experience wasn’t harrowing, but there it was, whenever she closed her eyes. She didn’t dream of it often, but she dreamed of it often enough that she could never quite brush it off. What was the alternative to longing for the life she would never have? As much as she couldn’t stomach that, nor could she stomach preferring the one she did have, confined and feared until the day she died. The Hero of Ferelden meant so much to her as a glimmer of hope that perhaps another choice did exist. </p><p>But still, the Fade would sometimes show her old bedroom. Her mother would take a seat on the bed and look at her with pride. It was never as convincing or as prolonged as during her Harrowing, but nor would it ever really leave her be.</p><p>The Fade is nothing if not adaptable, however, and now when she wakes up in Ostwick it’s rarely her mother taking her hand and smiling kindly. Sometimes it’s Lydia, and sometimes it’s Renn, and sometimes it’s no one, and it’s only when she steps out of bed that she sees their lifeless body lying on the bloodstained carpet.</p><p>So when Cullen tells her about Kinloch with his shattered lyrium kit on the floor behind them, she knows only too well how the Fade can get its hooks into the ugliest things in your mind and memories, and when he finally meets her eyes with exhausted bruises beneath his own, she can see that this is exactly what he’s afraid of.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It turns out that planning to lay siege to an legendary fortress filled with demons is quite an undertaking. Linnea, of course, knows comparatively little about siege warfare, and whatever she does know is second hand knowledge mostly gleaned from the past year or so. Whereas with many of the Inquisition's military operations, Linnea is quite content to leave the details to Cullen, in this case it’s rather more important that she understands her part in breaching the walls of Adamant.</p><p>She’s used to leaning quite heavily on both Josephine and Leliana in turn when it comes to their specialities, but she’s never leaned on Cullen like this before. Relied on him, certainly, but never <em>leaned</em> on him in this way. In truth she has actively avoided it, for a variety of reasons both of the professional and unprofessional variety. Cullen certainly doesn’t make it any easier, apparently determined after his recent period of ill health to prove his own capacity for hard work all over again, despite the fact it was never in doubt. </p><p>Linnea can see the ridiculous cycle they’re both perpetuating very clearly even as she helplessly keeps it going: his own guilt fuelling his overwork, and his overwork fuelling her own guilt over needing so much guidance from him, which in turn fuels <em>his </em>guilt for causing her to hesitate before asking for help, which in turn -</p><p>- well, they’re all running on stress and fumes these days. Everyone except Cullen seems to manage to add a little sleep to the mix now and then, however.</p><p>Brigitte is standing outside one of the doors to Cullen’s office, absently polishing a helmet. Cullen made a fuss about refusing an assistant, but once Josephine allowed him his contrary moment of bluster, Brigitte has stepped up to the task rather well, whatever he chooses to refer to her as. She seems to enjoy it more than dealing with Josie’s diplomats; she’s firm and no nonsense, and Cullen likes her. </p><p>“Hello, Inquisitor,” she says cheerfully, saluting in a way that Linnea still finds embarrassing. Brigitte always used to curtesy, she notes, but not any more. She’s seen her practicing with her sword in the training ring, too. Not that she liked the curtesying any better, but the salutes make her feel especially like she’s pretending at some military authority she most certainly doesn’t have.</p><p>Linnea smiles, hoping it doesn’t come out as thin as it feels. “Hello, Brigitte. I don’t suppose you’ve seen Cullen? I came by earlier but he wasn’t here.”</p><p>“He’s back now, ser. Are you wanting to go over the maps again? I’ll fetch them for you -“</p><p>“Oh, no thank you,” Linnea says, shaking her head. “It’s a personal visit, no maps required.”</p><p>“Of course,” Brigitte says politely, and Linnea feels herself flush a little at how carefully blank Brigitte’s expression is. Oh, <em>dear</em>. </p><p>“Someone has to insist he sleeps,” she mutters, casting about for a non-incriminating lie but settling instead on something nearer the truth. Brigitte grins knowingly. </p><p>“Ah. Well, good luck with that, ser.”</p><p>She thanks Brigitte, still flushing, and closes the door behind her once she’s inside Cullen’s office with a wince. </p><p>Cullen doesn’t look up. “Whatever it is,” he says wearily, rubbing a hand across his face, “it’ll have to be tomorrow, I’m afraid -“</p><p>Linnea grins, hands still on the door, and her embarrassment forgotten. “Is that so?”</p><p>“I - oh.” He looks up with a start, though to her brief dismay he doesn’t look nearly as pleased to see her as she might have hoped. “I thought you were - never mind, just a moment, let me have Brigitte bring the maps -“</p><p>“We’ve rather exhausted the maps at this stage, don’t you think?”</p><p>Cullen nods with understanding, though not the kind she intended. “The plans, then.” He shuffles the papers on his desk about, unfolding and spreading an especially large one. “Leliana’s people have brought the schematics for the walls, I thought you might find this of particular interest -“</p><p>“Cullen.”</p><p>“ - in light of the trebuchets Lady Josephine managed to source -“</p><p>“<em>Cullen</em>. Please, I’m begging you, no work,” Linnea says, crossing the room to his desk and resting on the edge of it with a weary sign. Cullen rubs at his face again as she settles herself, and when he looks up at her again his expression has softened, that subtle shift that she looks forward to as he changes from her commander to her - just to <em>Cullen</em>. It’s far more like what she was hoping for. “I’m only here to - well, you can probably guess why I’m here.”</p><p>Cullen raises his eyebrows. “Evidently not.”</p><p>“Well,” she says, always ready to tease him, “why am I usually interrupting you, if not for work?”</p><p>“I wouldn’t like to presume,” he says, but pushes himself away from where he’s leaning heavily on his hands against his desk, and there’s a ghost of a smile on his face that she’s sure she can breathe some life into. </p><p>“Firstly,” Linnea says, affecting an overly prim tone of voice and serious expression, and enjoying the way his smile breaks out properly, “I’m here to make sure you don’t plan on staying up all night working, and do, in fact, actually get some rest.”</p><p>“I see.”</p><p>“Strictly in my capacity as the Inquisitor, of course.”</p><p>“Of course.” He nods solemnly. “And secondly?”</p><p>“<em>Secondly</em>,” she says, and then grins, unable to maintain her serious expression. She reaches for him and he lets her pull him closer. She runs a thumb over his bottom lip to make herself quite clear, following it closely with her eyes. “But if it needs to wait until tomorrow…”</p><p>That’s his cue to kiss her, and he rises to the task wonderfully without further prompting, one hand still caught in hers where she’d tugged him closer, and the other with the fingertips pressed into the table behind her. Linnea allows herself a few long moments with a blissful lack of any thoughts at all - he has a remarkable ability to completely empty her head - before she places a hand to his cheek and reluctantly pulls back.</p><p>“I did mean it about getting some rest,” she murmurs, “I - we need you at your best.” She’s embarrassed by the way she swerves mid sentence, and not entirely sure why she does. Of course she needs him. He commands their forces. It’s not such an absurd thing to say that she needs to dodge it so sheepishly. </p><p>Cullen stiffens slightly but grips her hand where it rests on his face. “I will be. You have my word.”</p><p>“As for the second matter,” she says, hoping for the small smile he gives her, and then finds she can’t quite string together the teasing sentence she’d planned, so just kisses him again. </p><p>They haven’t had many chances for this recently and she’s not about to pass this one up, not when he’s so much more leisurely about it than he has been for weeks. He takes his time drawing her closer, his palm flat between her shoulder blades and moving slowly to the small of her back as he does so. She shivers delicately and he lets out a quiet hum against her lips that is both amused and gently content. Linnea can’t remember why she was worried about anything at all, ever; every last ounce of stress is a distant and faintly absurd memory. </p><p>She can’t even bring herself to be concerned about the fact they’re surrounded by three unlocked doors that form part of a regular thoroughfare for his soldiers. It just feels suddenly like a very insignificant detail compared to other, more pressing concerns: namely the persuasive way he pulls them flush against each other, and the endearing contrast between the warmth of his mouth and the soft cool of his palm on her jaw.</p><p>There’s a sharp knock from the other rampart entrance to his office - not the one where Brigitte is stationed - and Cullen sighs with sudden irritation. Before he can do anything further, the knocking abruptly stops and the voice of one of Cullen’s lieutenants carries through the door.</p><p>“I’m afraid the Commander is resting, Lady Cassandra. I can fetch you first thing when he’s awake, if you’d like.”</p><p>Whatever Cassandra says is lost through the door, and Linnea instead watches Cullen’s features arrange themselves into a faint frown with her own eyebrows raised.</p><p>“The Inquisitor? I saw her heading back towards the main hall, Lady Seeker, if I can accompany you -”</p><p>Linnea’s eyebrows rise even higher as the voices fade away, and Cullen lets out a breath, still frowning. </p><p>She watches him carefully as he drops her hand and steps back as though he means to go somewhere, and nods her head towards the door. “Are they… are they <em>covering </em>for us?” </p><p>After a moment of simply looking pained, he mutters: “Yes.”</p><p>“Did you ask them to?”</p><p>“Of course not,” he says sharply, and then sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. The soft peacefulness of only moments before seems very far away. “I’ll speak to them at once. I’ll make it perfectly clear that they shouldn’t -“</p><p>“Cullen,” she says with bewilderment, “it’s not such a terrible thing, is it?”</p><p>“Of course it is.” He drags a hand through his hair irritably. “I’ll ask Brigitte to fetch Cassandra, tell her I’m no longer resting -“</p><p>Linnea grabs his hand as he reaches for the door, without any real force, but he stops in his tracks nonetheless. “Please don’t,” she says, in as soothing a tone as she can manage. “They’re only trying to do a nice thing for you, Cullen. You needn’t spoil it.”</p><p>He clenches his jaw. “This can hardly be a spur of the moment thing, Brigitte must have asked for them to guard the other doors when she saw you come in, to head anyone off with false directions.”</p><p>“Exactly, she’s gone to all that trouble. Don’t undo all her hard work.” </p><p>“I never asked for them to do this,” he says, but he doesn’t move towards the door, which is something. “That would be a gross misuse of my -“</p><p>“Yes, but you didn’t ask, did you?” Linnea winds her fingers cautiously between his, and feels some of the fight go out of him. “Shouldn’t we at least make the most of it?”</p><p>“It’s not appropriate,” he mutters, but lets her lead him away from the door. “I will not abuse my position, even inadvertently.”</p><p>“I understand,” she says, still using her most soothing voice. She’s not sure she’s doing a very good job of it, caught unawares as she is by this sudden change of atmosphere. Her brain hasn’t quite caught up from the dopey contentment of him kissing her. “But you know why they’re doing it, don’t you?” He stays silent, so she coaxes him back until he’s leaning against his desk, and takes both of his hands in hers. “They’re doing it because they <em>like</em> you, and they’re making sure you get a proper break.”</p><p>He stays silent for a moment longer, but his hands relax a little beneath her fingers. “That’s quite an extrapolation.”</p><p>“Not at all, I know Brigitte well, she’s a considerate soul.” She kisses the corner of his mouth and feels another small shift in how rigid and unhappy he is, hopefully for the better, but it’s hard to say. “She used to hold back less urgent letters when Josephine was having a particularly stressful day, or sometimes she’d sneak things straight to Leliana. This is just the equivalent of rerouting a letter for her.”</p><p>“I only agreed to her reassignment because I thought it was what she wanted, I didn’t <em>expect</em> this.“</p><p>“Yes, loyalty and friendship isn’t <em>expected</em>,” she tells him, a little sharply, “but if you’ve earned it then it’s rude to throw it back in their faces.”</p><p>Cullen lets his head drop with a sigh until his forehead rests against hers. “I don’t deserve -“</p><p>“No,” she says firmly, “I refuse to hear the end of that sentence.”</p><p>They stand in silence for a few moments before Linnea speaks again, with some trepidation.</p><p>“Do they all know? About -“ She gestures between them sheepishly. </p><p>Cullen huffs with something that is closer to amusement than she expected. “Most of them.”</p><p>“For how long?”</p><p>“Quite some time, I should think.”</p><p>“But how?” She pulls back to look at him quizzically. “I’m not trying to accuse you - but did you say something, or...?”</p><p>“The Orlesian nobles have nothing on soldier’s barracks, and nothing gets past Brigitte, you must have noticed.”</p><p>“We taught her far too well,” Linnea says, and Cullen half smiles. “And so have you, apparently. She’s looking more lethal with a blade by the day. I take it she’ll be joining us at Adamant?”</p><p>“We’re going to need everyone, however much I dislike it,” he mutters, and sets his forehead against hers again. “You most of all.”</p><p>“No pressure then,” she says lightly, but he doesn’t so much as smile. “I have every faith in your plan. We’ll get through the gates.”</p><p>“That’s barely even half the battle.”</p><p>“You mean the army of demons? Well, let me worry about that.”</p><p>“I’m the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces, I think it’s well within my remit to worry about the army of demons we’ll be facing.” She can feel him frowning against her forehead, and squeezes his fingers encouragingly. “And you’re -“ He breaks off abruptly and grips her fingers with a firmness that is uncomfortable bordering on painful. </p><p>“Cullen,” she says gently, “we’ve faced far worse with much less notice. We couldn’t be more prepared for this than we already are, and it’s as much on our terms as we could possibly hope for.”</p><p>He winces. “It should be <em>me</em> saying this to <em>you</em>.”</p><p>Linnea resists rolling her eyes, if only because he seems to be in a particularly fretful mood, but holding her tongue is, as always, beyond her. “Must you insist on carrying the whole world on your shoulders entirely by yourself? Surely even you can’t carry habitual self-recrimination this far.”</p><p>Cullen rarely ever <em>looks</em> hurt; her mistake back when she knew him less well was to think that it just wasn’t an emotion he often experienced. What happens instead is something she mistook for coldness: he just - <em>disappears</em>. He doesn’t retreat physically at all, doesn’t shrink back or flinch, with his expression outwardly neutral, but something hard and sharp slams down behind his eyes. </p><p>This is what happens now, and with Linnea’s newfound understanding of his reactions and emotions, it is far, far more unnerving than it ever was before. His features barely shift. He doesn’t step away and drop their interlocked hands. He just lowers his gaze, and when he looks back up, he’s somehow barely present. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” she says, squeezing his fingers, “that was completely uncalled for, I’m ashamed of myself.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” he says evenly, and if you didn’t know him, it would sound completely sincere. Perhaps even if you <em>did </em>know him. </p><p>“It isn’t, clearly -“</p><p>“Really, there’s no need to apologise,” he says, his voice perfectly steady. He lowers her hands to her sides before letting go, in a gentle and measured way that is somehow also so very <em>detached</em> she automatically takes a step back. “It was kind of you to drop by, but I should get back to work, I’m afraid.”</p><p>She hesitates. “But you’ll be sure to rest?”</p><p>“There’s much to do.”</p><p>“Cullen -“</p><p>He’s already moving back to his desk. “Would you ask Brigitte to find Cassandra? I think she would want to see this before she retires. We can go over the maps again tomorrow, if you have a moment?”</p><p>She stays standing in front of the table for a long, heavy moment, but he neither says anything else nor looks up at her, unrolling the schematic and placing weights carefully on the edges with an intense focus. </p><p>“Of course,” she says eventually, which at least prompts a small nod. “Tomorrow, then.”</p><p>He slides one of the map weights too far and it slips from the table; Linnea catches it before Cullen can react, and holds it out to drop in his palm, willing him to meet her eyes. </p><p>“Thank you,” he murmurs, and his eyes flicker to meet hers for a brief second. She really can’t say what she sees in them, but she doesn’t like it at all. </p><p>Still, she knows when she’s being dismissed. She leaves before he’s forced to request her absence more explicitly, because she doesn't think she could take hearing it in plain words with as much stoicism as is required to make it to her quarters with her emotions held firmly in check. </p><p>If Brigitte is surprised to see Linnea slip out so quickly, she doesn’t remark on it. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Cullen wasn’t the only one who pitched a fit when Josie tried to assign him the appropriate number of assistants, servants, and all manner of staff that someone of his newfound position should be seen to have. Linnea too had protested with some alarm when she woke up on her first morning in her new quarters to find someone scraping out the fire, not least because she was only half dressed. </p><p>Much like Cullen, she hasn’t been able to get her own way, not entirely. Linnea has accepted - with some reluctance - that yes, she may be able to light fires quite effectively, and yes, no one needs bring her much fuel on account of the magical nature of said fire, but that also, <em>yes</em>, she’s incredibly busy. When she returns from Maker knows where, covered in mud and exhausted, perhaps <em>yes</em>, it does make sense that someone will have made the bed for her and left some fresh clothes for her to change into. She even slips back into it with far more ease than she expected, having people tending quietly to her various needs in the background much as they did in the Trevelyan estate. She doesn’t know how that makes her feel. She tries mostly not to think about it.</p><p>The one upside is that it does make her most sheepish indulgence rather more easy to facilitate, however. </p><p>“I tried just gathering snow off the balcony rather than bother you,” she tells Mags with some embarrassment, “but it was barely enough for a foot bath once it’d melted.”</p><p>“Can’t you just magic it up?” Mags tips another bucket into the tin bath. Linnea likes Mags. She’s not intimidated by anything, whether that’s the Inquisitor, or the Inquisitor’s magic. “Summon it from the Fade or something.”</p><p>“Not that simple, unfortunately.”</p><p>“Not that I’m not happy to help you, Lady Inquisitor,” Mags says quickly, “I was only curious.”</p><p>“Of course not, it’s a fair question.”</p><p>“I could’ve got them to bring it hot. Or we could warm it over the fire up here -“</p><p>“No need,” Linnea waves a hand. “I’ll heat it up. Magically, I mean.”</p><p>“If you say so,” Mags says, with obvious dubiousness. “Wouldn’t it be nicer if it were <em>properly</em> warm, though?”</p><p>“It will be properly warm.”</p><p>Mags looks at her incredulously. “Magical warm’s not the same.”</p><p>“Of course not, it’s much better. It’s always the perfect temperature.”</p><p>“Suit yourself,” Mags mutters, and Linnea is quite unable to repress a grin. There’s a knock at the door of her quarters and Mags gathers up the empty buckets by the fire. “That must be another batch of water, your worship. Reckon that’s almost deep enough for you?”</p><p>“Should be,” Linnea calls after her, and dips a hand absently into the tepid bath water, steam rising from where she touches it. Getting sufficient water to this part of Skyhold is somewhat of a challenge, as the building just wasn’t constructed with that in mind. No doubt this tower wasn’t intended to serve as a bedroom at all, and they’re merely imposing their ingrained sensibilities on it, as if it were an ordinary noble estate, and not a secret magical mountain fortress. She should’ve objected more when they first put her here, but after seeing the view she couldn’t help but be charmed by the romance of it all - not that she’d admit it.</p><p>She hears Mags coming back up the stairs from the doorway, expecting to hear the sloshing of the buckets, but instead -</p><p>“Maker’s breath,” an unimpressed voice mutters, and Linnea turns around to see Cullen standing awkwardly at the top of the stairs, Mags hovering behind him. His eyes take in her expansive quarters with apparent exasperation before coming to rest on her with an expression that is - thankfully - less judgemental.</p><p>“Your worship,” Mags says, with some uncertainty, “the Commander is here to speak to you.”</p><p>“Oh,” is all Linnea says, rather stupidly. She hasn’t seen Cullen since leaving his office a few hours ago after their disastrous conversation, and she hadn’t expected to see him anytime soon, given - well, their disastrous conversation. He’s never even set foot in her quarters before, and to see him here, clearly off-duty and minus both his actual armour and the less tangible armour that slammed down behind his eyes earlier, is quite disorienting. She hadn’t expected him to have the nerve, to be perfectly honest, but she’s cautiously pleased to be wrong. </p><p>“I’m disturbing you,” Cullen says, eyes flickering behind her to the bath full of water and looking as though he suddenly very much regrets being here. Her heart sinks. “It’s not urgent. I’ll - we can talk another time -“</p><p>“Please, stay,” she says quickly, “the water is cold anyway, I’ll heat it up later - ”</p><p>“I don’t want to intrude - ”</p><p>“You won’t,” she says, determined to sound as bright and cheerful as possible and overshooting the mark. It comes out perhaps a little unhinged. The look Mags gives her says as much, anyway.</p><p>“All right,” Cullen says, tentatively inching his way another half-step forward, and then they just look at each helplessly, Mags still standing at the top of the stairs with a bewildered expression that is, to Linnea’s horror, also a touch amused. </p><p>Linnea gestures stiffly towards the couch to his left. “Please, take a seat.”</p><p>“I’m fine, thank you.”</p><p>Mags moves to pick up the last few empty buckets, Cullen startling a little as she brushes past him, and Linnea has to fight back the nervous urge to laugh.</p><p>“Sorry,” he mutters.</p><p>“Thank you, Mags,” she says, trying to produce at least one sentence between the two of them that isn’t hopelessly stilted. “I really appreciate it.”</p><p>“Is that enough water for you, Lady Inquisitor?” Mags says pointedly, and Linnea is fervently grateful for the prompting. </p><p>“It is, yes. Thank you again for your help.”</p><p>Even when Mags has cast them both another curious look and excused herself very slowly and inquisitively with the remainder of the buckets, Cullen doesn’t look any less awkward as he stays standing next to the couch by the stairs. </p><p>“This room really is ridiculous,” he says eventually, his eyes fixed on the mural above the bed. </p><p>“Yes,” she says sheepishly, not sure why she’s apologetic about something she had so little say in. “Although I thought you’d have seen it already? Please, take a seat.”</p><p>He ignores that last request. “I last saw it when it was empty. Leliana had me sign off on the security report before they furnished it, though Maker knows why she needed <em>my </em>input.” He hesitates. “Is it... appropriate for me to be here?”</p><p>Linnea raises an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t it be? Really, <em>please</em> do sit down, I’m getting uncomfortable just looking at you.”</p><p>“I suppose Josephine is to thank for the decor,” he says, still standing stubbornly and letting his critical gaze travel about the room once more. </p><p>“I imagine so, yes. The bed’s particularly absurd, isn’t it? I hardly know what to do with myself in it.” At that, Cullen meets her eyes, and they both clearly share the same unbidden thought, to their joint embarrassment. She is suddenly acutely aware of the furtive imaginings this particular piece of furniture has in fact been witness to, which rather makes a lie out of her offhand confession. She’d hoped some of them might even become reality, if she’s perfectly honest, but the first step towards that - Cullen finally being present - is not transpiring at all in the way she’d wanted.</p><p>Linnea clears her throat. “Shall we sit?”</p><p>“Yes,” he agrees hurriedly, and they settle themselves on the couch, their knees almost touching, and both of them angling themselves away from her bed as much as possible. It’s faintly ridiculous given the couch faces it, and she’d want to laugh if she didn’t also sort of want to cry. She feels almost suffocated by the awkwardness between them, miserable with herself for causing it, and at a loss as how to fix whatever it is she’s broken.</p><p>She reaches out to touch her fingers lightly to his knee, throwing caution to the wind. “I really am sorry about before,” she says quietly, “it was thoughtless.”</p><p>Cullen takes her hand in his at once, to her intense relief. “You don’t need to apologise.”</p><p>“Of course I do, I clearly upset you.”</p><p>“You don’t,” he says, his eyes firmly focused on where he’s gripping her hand tightly. “It should be me saying that to you.”</p><p>“We risk treading old ground here, don’t you think?” she says wryly, and he lets out a small huff of breath that she recognises as restrained amusement, though he’s still looking determinedly down at their hands. “I’ll just say this, then: I want to apologise whether you think I should or not. I made light of how you were feeling, and that wasn’t kind. That isn’t how I want to treat anyone, least of all you.”</p><p>“Least of all me,” he mutters, so quietly she barely hears it.</p><p>“That can’t come as a surprise,” she says gently, though there’s still a part of<em> her</em> that’s surprised by it, now and again. “Unless you truly don’t know I care about you, in which case I’d very much like to set the record straight.”</p><p>He rubs the pad of his thumb along the sharp edge of her thumbnail, back and forth, and shakes his head as they sit in silence for another long moment. It’s almost as if he’s not quite aware he’s doing it. </p><p>“I wouldn’t want you to think I came here to prompt an apology from you,” he says eventually. “That wasn’t my intention at all.”</p><p>“Then why did you come here?” She edges along the couch slightly closer, taking his other hand too with both of hers. “Not solely to judge the interior design, I assume.”</p><p>He lets out another short, almost laugh that is barely more than a sharp exhale. “No.”</p><p>He leaves her unanswered question hanging stiffly in the air between them, and it’s only after Linnea has patiently forced herself to wait a full ten seconds that she prompts him delicately. “Then why did you -”</p><p>Cullen stands up abruptly, leaving her holding onto nothing. “Would you like some air?”</p><p>She stands up, trying not to scrutinise his face too obviously for signs of poor health. “All right,” she says slowly, and gestures towards the balcony. “The views are better in full daylight, I’m afraid,” she adds, rather pointlessly. She doubts the views have much to do with anything. “It’ll be dark before long, though I <em>am</em> surprised to see you emerging from your office before sunset, actually.”</p><p>“I’ve been reliably informed my working hours are far too long,” he mutters, though without his usual humour. </p><p>“At least we’re finally getting through to you,” she says, and leads him out onto the balcony with one last searching look at his face, which is rather pale and drawn.</p><p>The fresh air seems to do him some good within seconds, and he leans on his palms on the stone balustrades as he looks out over the slowly darkening Frostbacks. “There’s something I want to tell you,” he says quietly as she comes to stand beside him. “It’s - it’s hard to know where to start.”</p><p>She touches her fingers briefly to his elbow. “There’s no rush. We have time.”</p><p>“Do we? That would certainly be a novelty,” he says, in a quick glimpse of his usual wryness. He shakes his head and it’s gone, but at least he seems to have renewed purpose. “How much do you know about how I met Leliana?”</p><p>“I know it was during the Blight,” she says carefully, and then continues when he nods. “She was travelling with the Hero of Ferelden when they came to the Circle’s aid.”</p><p>“I told you what happened to Ferelden’s Circle.”</p><p>“Briefly,” she says cautiously, but he doesn’t seem inclined to look at her, so she follows his lead and leans on the balustrade as they gaze out into the last light of the sunset. “You must have met Alistair then, too.”</p><p>“The Warden, yes.” Cullen winces. “I don’t suppose he told you how we -“</p><p>She is quick to reassure him, feeling oddly guilty that she discussed it behind his back at all. “Only that the Circle was in a bad way.”</p><p>“It was.” </p><p>“Abominations still at large?” she asks, as gently as she can, but she still notices the way he flinches. “You must’ve been glad of the help.”</p><p>Cullen lowers his head, letting his arms carry even more weight as he seems to slump into himself over the balcony. After a moment, he sighs. “I don’t know how -“</p><p>Linnea feels a strange flutter of horror in her stomach as it becomes clear to her just what he intends to do. “You don’t have to tell me anything, Cullen.”</p><p>“I do,” he says, “I <em>do</em>. And I will. I’ve just… never had to put this into words before.”</p><p>“Cullen -“</p><p>“Please,” he says firmly, “just - allow me to try. We’ve spoken about the Hero of Ferelden before, how we knew each other, how I -“ He grimaces. “ - <em>felt</em> about her.” He forces out the word <em>felt</em> as though it’s something quite abhorrent. As though feeling anything at all was a failing.</p><p>“You’ve not been quite so frank, but yes.” Linnea tries not to watch him too carefully, but she can’t help that she keeps glancing at him rather than watching the skyline as dutifully as she planned. “You also said there wasn’t anything between the two of you.”</p><p>“There wasn’t,” he says quickly, and then sighs. “And… there was, in a way.”</p><p>“I’m not sure I understand.”</p><p>“Nothing ever happened,” he says, “but we - she always <em>knew</em> that I - well, I was very young. I hope I never made her uncomfortable, but that seems unlikely, given the position I put her in. It doesn’t matter that I never did anything truly untoward, the point was she knew how I felt, and I made no real attempt to correct it.”</p><p>“To <em>correct</em> it?”</p><p>“How can it ever be appropriate for a mage to know that a Templar, a <em>Templar</em> stationed to their Circle - tasked with watching over them and protecting them - felt strongly about them in that way?” He glances up at her briefly, looking pained. “Surely you know this.”</p><p>Linnea doesn’t know how to answer that at all, not in a way that is both truthful and comforting. She thinks of all the off-handed comments she’s made about her time in the Circle and can see suddenly the way he’s clearly been cataloguing them dutifully. She can’t regret saying them. It won’t make them less true. </p><p>She settles instead for something they’re both dancing around. “But you loved her.”</p><p>“I thought I did,” Cullen mutters. “But I don’t think I really knew what love was, then.”</p><p>“Forgive me, but isn’t thinking you love someone basically the same thing as loving them?”</p><p>“Not at all,” he says, with such conviction that she’s humbled by it. Would Linnea know the difference? She’s not sure she would; she hasn’t anything to compare it to. “Either way,” he continues, “it was a failing.”</p><p>“Cullen,” she starts softly, but he cuts her off with a shake of his head.</p><p>“Let me explain, please. When the abominations took control of the tower, they imprisoned us. We were tortured. I was the last one left,” he says, his voice flat and lifeless. “I don’t know why I didn’t die with them. I would have, if she hadn’t shown up, I can’t have had much left in me. For a time, I chose to believe the Maker had spared me so that I could continue doing His work as a Templar and with my <em>unique perspective </em>I could ensure that the dangers of magic were properly respected, but -“ He bows over again. “I don’t think I believe that any longer, anyway. Not like I used to.”</p><p>Linnea stands by his side helplessly, longing to reach for him but certain that it’s the last thing he needs. </p><p>“The Wardens arrived when I was so consumed by all the visions and horrors they’d been showing me, that I didn’t think it was real. I thought it was another trick. You see,” he says heavily, “that wasn’t the first time I’d seen her. Or been <em>shown</em> an approximation of her, more accurately. I think you can probably deduce -“ He breaks off again, working his jaw with agitation.</p><p>“I can.” Her heart breaks for him, just a little. “I’m not unfamiliar with the work of desire demons.”</p><p>Cullen seems to find the easy way she names his tormentors particularly difficult to hear, angling himself away from her. “Then perhaps you see now how it was a failing. I failed in my duty and they had that - that - <em>leverage </em>to torment with with, so I couldn’t -“</p><p>“If it hadn’t been that, it would’ve been something else,” she says gently. “It would’ve been your friends, or your family, something they could get hold of and twist to their own purposes - you must know this.”</p><p>“It wouldn’t have been the same.” Cullen swallows, and then studies the horizon intently for several long moments. “I can’t -“</p><p>“Please don’t feel you have to.”</p><p>He ploughs forward determinedly, Linnea closing her eyes briefly with second hand mortification and discomfort. She can hardly bear to be the recipient of this, even as she knows that’s a terrible thing to think. </p><p>“It had some instructional value, at least. I don’t think I understood just how inappropriate my behaviour had been until it was laid bare like that.”</p><p>“By abominations? By <em>torture</em>? You can’t take lessons from that, Cullen,” she says, “and you can’t blame yourself for scenarios that never truly played out.”</p><p>“Maybe,” he says, though she suspects only from politeness and not through any real change in his convictions. He looks at her directly, for the first time since they’ve been standing outside on the balcony. “I didn’t come here for your pity or absolution,” he says, decisively but not completely without gentleness. “I don’t want or deserve either of them, so please don’t.”</p><p>She nods slowly. “Can I at least register my strong disagreement?”</p><p>He ignores that, holding her gaze nonetheless. “I wanted to tell you,” he says quietly, “so you understand why I need to make sure I never make the same mistake again. I need to be sure that I don’t abuse the position and responsibilities that I have, not to our soldiers, not to Brigitte, and not  - not to you.”</p><p>“To me?” she repeats, even quieter than him. “Cullen, I’m not a Circle mage, not any more. And you’re not a Templar.”</p><p>“Do you think it’s that easy?”</p><p>“I -“ Linnea looks at him helplessly, at the circles beneath his eyes, at his hollow expression. He deserves more than a comforting lie. “I don’t. Of course I don’t, but I think you’re trying to draw parallels that aren’t there.”</p><p>“You were afraid of me.”</p><p>“No more afraid than I was of everyone,” she says sharply, “and for good reason. <em>You</em> were afraid of me.”</p><p>He looks away then, rather than answer. He needn’t bother; she knew the answer long ago. “Everything I do,” he says, his voice low and miserable, “everything I <em>have</em> done, it’s all been informed by that moment. I was wrong before, when I used it as justification to be distrustful and unjust, and I don’t intend to be wrong again. I <em>can’t </em>be.”</p><p>“Oh, Cullen,” she says, all the fight and sharpness gone out of her, and she reaches for his hand despite the stiff way he’s holding himself, and grips tightly. “That’s a terrible moment to live your life around. And you were what, nineteen? I can’t even imagine.”</p><p>His fingers squeeze hers ever so slightly, though he closes his eyes. “Well, now you know. If you think less of me I understand, and if you no longer wish to continue our - to continue as things have been between us -“</p><p>“By Andraste, <em>stop</em>,” she says, and to her surprise, he does. “I should be insulted, honestly. I hope you don’t really think so little of me.”</p><p>“I don’t think little of you at all,” he says at once. </p><p>She takes both his hands this time, and turns him gently but unyieldingly to face her, where she then places a hand on his jaw, thumb on his cheek. He turns into it as if to hide. “All right, then. Do <em>you</em> no longer wish to continue our relationship?” </p><p>His reply is quiet. “No.”</p><p>“Do you think it’s in any way an abuse of power?”</p><p>“I worry,” he says, barely audible. </p><p>“It’s always going to be complicated,” Linnea says, hardly any louder. “As I’m saying this, there’s a part of me that can’t quite believe I’m cosying up to the other side, but that isn’t quite what we are anymore, is it?” He shakes his head mutely. “Cullen, I can’t possibly imagine why I would think less of you.”</p><p>With an edge of frustration to his voice, he says, “Because I abused my-“</p><p>“You’re a good person,” she says, feeling him wince away from her words like physical things, but holding him steady. “Yes, yes, you don’t want my absolution, well - too bad. I can be almost as stubborn as you, when I try.”</p><p>The slightest hint of a smile starts on his face. “Perhaps.”</p><p>“You do deserve it, you know.”</p><p>He exhales slowly, still turning his face into her palm. “I certainly don’t deserve you.”</p><p>“You absurd man,” she says fondly, rather than doing something mortifying and uncalled for like crying. Her eyes prickle anyway, the horrible, traitorous appendages, and her voice only cracks ever so slightly. “Thank you for trusting me,” she adds, rather more seriously. “With all of it.”</p><p>Cullen just holds her wrist and presses her palm more firmly to his cheek.</p><p>“I hope you meant it about reducing your working hours,” she says, her stupid, useless heart too full and too delicate to risk saying something that she can’t work a little humour into. “You do look tired.”</p><p>“I meant it,” he says after a moment, smiling into her wrist. “I can recognise when I reach my own limits, you know.”</p><p>“By the Maker, that’s an ominous admission. When did you last sleep?”</p><p>“I’d rather not admit that,” he says waspishly, “but I do intend to get some rest, I assure you.”</p><p>“Very good,” she says in mock appraisal. “That was almost convincing.”</p><p>“Let me do one better: I intend to get some rest <em>soon</em>. Not just because I gave you my word - and besides, I’ve disrupted your plans for the evening.” Cullen inclines his head the slightest amount towards the balcony door, and the still cold bathtub of water. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have disturbed you.“</p><p>“Then I’m glad you didn’t know, as you’ve done nothing of the sort.” She doesn’t move away, one hand still in his with the other on his face. “I should let you go. If even <em>you</em> recognise you need rest, it must be dire.” She half smiles to take the sting out of it. </p><p>“I should let you enjoy your bath.”</p><p>“It’ll keep,” she says softly, but after a brief moment of stillness, he turns his head slightly and kisses her wrist with a gentle finality, before lowering her hand and disentangling their fingers slowly. </p><p>She wants to tell him he can stay, if he likes, and she wants to tell him that he can even sleep here if it would be more likely to guarantee peace, but she knows it would only make him uncomfortable and he wouldn’t know how to ask to be alone. She wants to tell him how savagely she longs to rip what remains of the Order and the Chantry limb from limb, but he wouldn’t like that, either, he wouldn’t want her fury. She wants to tell him that he’s trusted her with something so fragile and personal that she fears she can never truly reciprocate. </p><p>Demons reached into his mind and they found passion, something caring and heartfelt, however forbidden. In her, they found little of interest. A sense of self importance and a longing to be rich and admired. She’s - she’s hollow. She’s insubstantial. She’s lived a life somewhat detached from things that bring fierce passion, like love and faith and duty. If he hasn’t realised already, he soon will.</p><p>So she doesn’t say anything, and when he leaves, she soaks numbly in the bathtub until her fingers wrinkle.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Finally seeing Adamant not as theoretical lines on schematics and maps but as solid unforgiving stone makes Linnea’s skin crawl. It might look modestly sized to the untrained eye, but she knows only too well how far back into the rock it extends. Her introduction to siege warfare may have been hurried and rudimentary, but even without Cullen pointing out each choke point and potential sources  of defensive enfilading fire, it cuts an intimidating silhouette from the vantage point of the besieging force.</p><p>She also knows that part of it is always a numbers game, and the Inquisition is by no means at a disadvantage in this regard. If Linnea lets herself dwell on that it fills her with abject horror -  a sea of helmet after matching helmet marching in neat formation. She’d like to think this horror is more evidence of Alistair’s kind that points to her <em>not</em> being driven by megalomania, but then again, surely she’d call a stop to the entire battle if that were the case.</p><p>But then, there are the demons stalking the battlements. Twisting their heads this way and that to see the approaching army. The Wardens patrol just behind them half out of sight, supposedly tugging at their leash rather than the other way around.</p><p>It’s all wrong. Fighting her childhood heroes who are supposed to be saving the world but are instead raising a demon army to end it. Leading thousands of people to their death, potentially, because they believe that she’s worth following, for whatever reason. None of it was supposed to happen this way.</p><p>She itches all over to be of use while the troops do their part in breaching the walls, not with any sort of grim bloodlust, but determination to end this as quickly as possible. She can’t be what so many of them believe her to be and feels helpful in the face of their faith, but she can do this. </p><p>And then, once it begins in earnest, she turns to look back at the Commander of her forces and something jars within her and comes to a grinding halt. Or perhaps more accurately, something comes unstuck. He meets her eyes across the courtyard, bodies and rubble at their feet.</p><p>They’ve been perfectly professional since they marched from Skyhold, and not in the way they’re often <em>professional</em>. This type came without any pretence; there’s a job to be done, and they’re each quite clear on the roles they have to play. </p><p>It occurs to Linnea that for the first time in a long while, she’s afraid. They might die, but of course, that could be said of most things she’s doing on any given day. It just feels a little closer today, far closer than it’s felt since Haven was attacked. She’s been afraid since then - it would be deeply abnormal if she hadn’t - but this feels more real, and less muted and routine. </p><p>It feels more real as well to see Cullen with a sword in his hand, and there’s even a tiny nick on his cheek and a small smear of blood beneath it. An arrow that he didn’t quite duck, perhaps. He’d told her irritably that he wouldn’t be in the thick of things in his capacity as their Commander, and she hadn’t believed him then, either.</p><p>He looks back at her, expression unreadable despite the short distance between them. He hasn’t moved either, holding his sword and shield both rather uselessly.</p><p>This isn’t one of Varric’s stories. It’s not as if she wants to rush back, be swept up in his arms, and make a romantic declaration of love in what could be their last moments. She doesn’t know if that’s even what she <em>does </em>feel, and whilst such a declaration might be heart-warming on the page, she’s fairly sure it would just be stilted and embarrassing in this reality. There are Wardens dead at their feet, Inquisition soldiers beyond the gates that fell before they even breached the walls. </p><p>Besides, she’s not in love with him. She can’t be. The thought is honestly horrifying to her, the notion that she’d made it twenty seven years without being bogged down by any <em>romantic nonsense</em> of her own only to fall so very stupidly for an uptight <em>ex-Templar </em>that she hasn’t even <em>slept with</em> -</p><p>But that isn’t fair, she wouldn’t define Cullen in those terms anymore. She really does care for him, and he’s trusted her with things so horribly personal and fragile that she ought to be ashamed of herself for even thinking mockingly about whatever physical intimacy they have or haven’t had. It doesn’t mean a thing.  </p><p>She just can’t be <em>in love</em> with him. It’s absurd. </p><p>It’s just that - she <em>could </em>be. It doesn’t make any sense at all, and yet it makes no less sense than anything else that’s happened to her in the past year. It’s just that she wants the chance to find out, and it’s just that she’s suddenly willing to consider the possibility for the first time. </p><p>None of which would make a particularly romantic declaration whichever way she spins it.</p><p>The moment stretches out for agonising ages in her mind, but it’s probably only a second or so before she wrenches her gaze away from him, her heart in her throat. They have jobs to do, and so many people relying on them. </p><p>There’s a shriek from above them on the next level, the unmistakable scream of a demon. She’s heard it so many times before, and yet this is the one that rattles her. </p><p>Linnea looks up at the battlements sharply, knuckles white on her staff. </p><p>“There are so many,” she says, suddenly overwhelmed. “How are we going to fight through all of them?”</p><p>It’s Dorian who answers, the grip on his own staff no less firm. “One at a time, I should expect.”</p><p>Linnea takes a breath. “The usual, then.”</p><p>And so it begins.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Afterwards, when her legs are starting to shake with exhaustion, she leans heavily on her staff rather than let them down by showing weakness. They all watched her stumble out of a rift - again - with awe in their eyes that she fears she can never truly shake now, even armed with the truth: she was never <em>chosen</em>. She has been letting them peddle zealotry on her behalf for months now, <em>months </em> -and now she’ll have to lie in the shameful bed she’s allowed herself to lie in. She should’ve protested more. She should’ve put up at least <em>some</em> resistance -</p><p>The mocking weight that being the <em>Herald </em>places on her shoulders feels more viscerally physical than ever, and whatever kept her going in the Fade is rapidly fading itself. Dorian keeps looking at her with concern, as if there isn’t blood trickling down his own forehead. </p><p>He hobbles after her, waving away a healer dismissively as the Inquisition’s supporting personnel start to pour into the fortress - or at least, what remains of it. “Where are you going?”</p><p>“Cullen has Erimond.”</p><p>“Erimond will wait.” Dorian watches her with a sharp expression. “You need rest.”</p><p>“And you need a healer.”</p><p>Dorian snorts. “Yes, there’s a lot of that going around. Just wait a minute -“</p><p>“We need to identify the bodies,” she says, too numb through to even feel the emotions one would expect to follow such a sentence. She supposes that’ll come later. “We’ll have to burn them, obviously.”</p><p>“Forgive my seeming callousness, but the dead can wait a little longer. You, however, need rest.” He fell quite heavily on his ankle in their final battle in the Fade, and is having trouble keeping up with her, even though her pace is far more unsteady than usual. “Linnea -“</p><p>She gestures wearily eastwards. “That rift leads all the way to the Deep Roads, according to the Wardens. We need to burn them as soon as possible.”</p><p>“In which case, we have plenty of soldiers up to the task. Need it really be you?”</p><p>“Cullen will know the numbers,” she says tonelessly, stepping over a body in Warden colours. Such a needless waste. “We’ll have to send word to Leliana.”</p><p>“Linnea,” Dorian tries again, and then when she doesn’t slow in the slightest, he tries again, more firmly: “Linnea  - <em>Nins, </em>stop.”</p><p>It hits her square in the chest. Sera was the first to start using it after wrangling the nickname from Linnea over a bottle of wine, positively gleeful at the way it turns her sheepish. Dorian has probably said it before and she just didn’t really notice, but now, <em>here</em>, it knocks the breath out of her. Her childhood nickname from the Circle that she never thought she’d hear again. Linnea is the Inquisitor; Nins is from before. </p><p>So she does stop, feeling Dorian watching as she exhales slowly. “Fine,” she says eventually. “I’ll rest if you see a healer?”</p><p>He tries for a grin, though it looks as forced through his exhaustion as everything else feel. “As the Inquisitor insists. I will submit myself to the rustic methods of your southern spirit mages.”</p><p>“‘Rustic methods’? If it heals a wound, how <em>rustic</em> can it be?”</p><p>“Not to tempt fate, but if you ever visit my homeland and sustain some kind of terrible wound - Maker forbid - you’ll understand when you receive our superior medical care.”</p><p>“I suppose blood magic has to be good for something,” she says, trying for her own grin, and Dorian barks a short laugh.</p><p>“I don’t know what you’re implying, I’m sure.”</p><p>Linnea is about to let him lead her back towards the healers’ makeshift stations when she spots Cullen walking briskly over the rubble towards the courtyard where the Fade spat them out. He’s followed by his usual retinue, and is giving out instructions as he gestures across the fortress with both hands, his sword sheathed at his side. He doesn’t look as battle worn as she might have feared.</p><p>She already knew he was alive and well. It was one of the first pieces of information offered to her when they returned from the Fade, given to her impersonally and factually as the Inquisitor. She didn’t hear it as such, of course. </p><p>Another wave of relief skitters through her as she sees proof of his survival with her own eyes, although that falters somewhat as he spots her and his expression changes dramatically. </p><p>He’s in front of them in barely a matter of seconds, and though she isn’t entirely surprised by the worry in his eyes she doesn’t expect him to take a firm hold of first one shoulder and then the other, holding her at arm's length and bending slightly to match her eye level as he looks intently, searchingly at her face.</p><p>He’s afraid, she realises, relief replaced with an icy feeling in her stomach. Afraid enough not to feel at all self conscious about the familiarity of how he approaches her in front of so many curious eyes. She’s wanted this, if she’s bitterly honest, but not like this. Not with fear. </p><p>“You fought it in the Fade,” he says tersely. She can see his fear so clearly up close, though the exact nature of it eludes her. No doubt it’s as complicated as her own, tangled up as it must be with his long standing fear of the Fade itself. “You disappeared, we thought you -“</p><p>Her heart clenches. “Yes.”</p><p>“You were <em>in</em> the Fade - <em>physically</em> in the Fade -“ He scans her eyes and his fingers tighten on her shoulders, his gloves creaking. “That shouldn’t be possible.”</p><p>“Yes,” she says again, barely audible to anyone but him. The full weight of the day seems to be finally settling in on her shoulders. If he wasn’t holding on so tightly, she feels as though she might simply crumple. </p><p>“It’s not entirely without precedent,” Dorian says cautiously, but Cullen doesn’t even acknowledge him, his focus on Linnea is so intent. “It’s not necessarily cause for undue alarm, although I’ll admit it’s unusual -“</p><p>“Are you quite certain,” Cullen says to her with obvious effort, still paying little attention to Dorian, “that nothing else returned with you?” </p><p>“As certain as I can be,” she says, her own mind stuck more on what didn’t return with them. It clearly isn’t quite what he wants to hear, so she tries again. “That is - yes. I’m certain.”</p><p>“Did you - are you -“ He struggles for words, still desperately combing her face. Even his Templar training seems to have failed him. She doesn’t know whether she finds that comforting or quite the opposite. She knows even less how to show him that she’s herself, when she’s so tired and wrung out she hardly feels present. She has to try, even so. </p><p>“It’s been a very long day,” she says faintly, eyes flickering to the cut on his cheek. It isn’t deep. She half lifts a hand up to touch it, but catches herself before she actually follows through with that particularly useless gesture. “I could really use a bath.”</p><p>His expression becomes less immediately fearful at that, but she remains under his intense scrutiny for another long moment. Then, his concentration seems to break as he finally glances at Dorian over her shoulder, and he lets go of her shoulders slowly, as if he has to convince each of his fingers to peel away from her one by one. Rather than let them fall, he runs his hands down to her elbows before releasing her. It’s obviously sentimental, and he doesn’t check himself at all, whether consciously or not. Linnea closes her eyes for a few seconds, the emotion of it all threatening to catch up with her too. </p><p>When she opens them, Dorian looks away politely, though not quick enough for her to miss the way he was watching her curiously. Funny how little she cares, really. She hasn’t any energy left to spare on worrying about discretion. Erimond, too, seems hardly worth thinking about, now that the weariness has set into her bones. </p><p>“It was certainly an experience,” Dorian says, filling the silence that Cullen and Linnea seem otherwise incapable of breaking. Cullen just nods, his jaw tight, his gaze not leaving her face. “Were we gone long?”</p><p>“Some time,” Cullen says eventually, “I couldn’t say exactly. We feared the worst.”</p><p>“Hours?” Dorian sounds genuinely curious, though she has the feeling it’s also quite pointed as she wrestles possibly visibly with her emotions. “From our perspective I would guess around three, though it’s very hard to put a number on time in there.”</p><p>“Not that long, no.”</p><p>“Fascinating,” Dorian says, “we’ll have to compare notes.”</p><p>Cullen nods curtly in a way that suggests otherwise, but no doubt Dorian expected that. </p><p>“It’s good to see you in one piece, anyway,” Linnea says, only sounding only slightly hoarse. She clears her throat. Back to business. “We weren’t sure quite what was happening while we were in the Fade but it seems that you had it under control. We need to - the bodies -“</p><p>“I have people on it.”</p><p>“What did I tell you?” Dorian nudges her gently with his elbow. Even so she feels as though it hits about ten broken ribs. “Now, don’t forget our deal, inquisitor. You need rest.”</p><p>She’s not at all sure that is what she needs, but she follows him anyway.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Alistair sets off early the next morning, clearly attempting to sneak away before his departure can cause too much of a stir. Linnea would have missed it too if unpleasant dreams hadn’t woken her early. She’d crawled from the tent she’s sharing with Cassandra to watch the sunrise with bleary eyes.</p><p>He looks a bit sheepish to be discovered, but not displeased to see her. </p><p>“I don’t like goodbyes,” he says wryly, looking up at her from where he’s carefully packing away food for the journey. “When you see Leliana, tell her - oh, just tell her I’ll be in touch when I can. She knows that already, but - well.”</p><p>Linnea nods. “I’ll tell her. Are you sure we can’t offer you a horse?”</p><p>“No, no,” Alistair says, shaking his head. “Believe it or not, I’m not that good a rider. Besides, once I hit the mountains it’s not very horse-friendly. I’ll do better by foot.”</p><p>“More butter, then?” </p><p>He snorts. “Very funny. Luckily, my feet are now just an attractive collection of calluses in the shape of feet. Such is the life of a runaway Warden.”</p><p>“I’m starting to know that feeling.”</p><p>Alistair heaves his pack into his back without much effort considering the size of it; he’s an old hand at the motion, evidently. “I’m sure I’ll have a few more to add to my collection before I reach Weisshaupt.”</p><p>Linnea stands up with a wince to walk him to the edge of the camp, still stiff and sore after the battle. “And after Weisshaupt?”</p><p>“I’m sure my superiors will have all sorts of ideas about how I can make myself useful. <em>Superiors</em> are very good at that sort of thing.”</p><p>“But what about the Hero of Fer - I mean, Aisling?”</p><p>He smiles sheepishly, as if she’s caught him out again. “Yes, I’ll find her. Or she’ll find me, more likely.” Alistair pauses for a moment. “I suppose it depends on what she finds first, doesn’t it?”</p><p>“I hope you get your cure,” Linnea says, keeping pace with his long, easy strides despite her aches and pains. “I think you’ve both earned the right to retire.”</p><p>“Well, thank you. I hope you’re right.”</p><p>They walk past mostly silent tents without speaking for a while before Linnea looks at him once more. </p><p>“Did you ever read the letter Aisling wrote to me?”</p><p>Alistair’s tone is fondly dry. “I don’t think so. I hope she was nice.”</p><p>“It was a bit severe, actually,” Linnea says, prompting a grin. “She said something about you that rather stuck with me, though.”</p><p>He looks at her sideways. “About me? That sounds ominous.”</p><p>“I mean - not ominous, exactly. But she did tell me to take care of you in a manner that didn’t exactly broker any argument.”</p><p>He laughs quietly. “Of course she did.”</p><p>“She was very complimentary, and not a single mention of buttered feet. She said -“</p><p>Alistair just waits patiently as Linnea finds herself hesitating on the words for a moment or two. Eventually, he prompts her politely. “She said…”</p><p>“She said she wasn’t prepared to lose you to my Inquisition, after everything you’ve been through, and everything she’s doing looking for the cure. And I - well…“ She trails off, hoping he’ll understand. She can’t quite say it to anyone else, and apparently she’s struggling to even say it to him. “I’ll probably never meet her, but sometimes I feel like -“ She breaks off again, freshly embarrassed. “I hope she finds it, anyway. I think it’d be a very satisfying end to all the stories, don’t you?”</p><p>They’ve reached the end of the vast array of Inquisition tents, and Alistair comes to a stop, looking at her with a peculiar expression. “I’d like to think so,” he says softly. </p><p>She looks back out over the camp, which is just starting to stir in earnest for the day ahead. Most of them will start the long journey back to Skyhold the same morning.</p><p>She looks back at Alistair and holds out her hand, not knowing what else to do, and suddenly sad to see him go.“Thank you for all your help, Warden Alistair. We couldn’t have achieved this victory without you.”</p><p>Her formality seems to amuse him, but he takes her hand solemnly nonetheless. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Inquisitor. I’m very glad to have helped.”</p><p>Linnea is struck again by all the ways he differs in the qualities she was expecting from Alistair: legendary Grey Warden. It’s hard to quantify, but the way he shakes her hand is another of those incongruous little details. His grip is light and polite, and having shook a lot of Warden hands in the past twenty four hours, it’s noticeably different. Oddly genteel, in a way.</p><p>She’s struck again by how much he reminds her of her brothers, especially when he’s unguarded like this, and not playing the part of famous Grey Warden or dutiful soldier. He looks younger than usual, and her mother would describe his features, no doubt, as ‘well-bred’. An odious expression, but the observation stands. It isn’t true at all that the nobility have a monopoly on certain kinds of noses or certain sharpness of cheekbones, but they like to think they do anyway, and if you have them, then all the better. If they take a shine to a commoner, they’d rather pretend it’s their hitherto unknown noble lineage shining through than accept anyone can be born with a courtly handsomeness. Cullen’s a walking example of Orlais doing just that.</p><p>“And thank you for ending the Fifth Blight, of course,” she adds as they drop each other’s hands.</p><p>“Haven’t you heard? That’s old news.”</p><p>She smiles. “You say that, but I’m still quite glad not to have been killed by darkspawn. If only so they could try to kill me all over again ten years later, that is.”</p><p>He inclines his head slightly in a facetious bow. “In that case, you’re very welcome. I’m glad to see you’re taking my advice on board, as well.” </p><p>His advice? Linnea flushes, looking back in the direction of Cullen’s tent almost involuntarily. “Well, I don’t - I mean, it’s not that -“</p><p>Alistair gives her a curious look. “Have things not gotten quite so dire as to merit buttered feet just yet?”</p><p>“Oh, that!” Linnea says, and then her cheeks grow even pinker. “Sorry, I was thinking about - about something else you said. Ignore me.”</p><p>He grins uncertainly. “I stand by what I said about mabari, too.”</p><p>Perhaps it’s because she knows it’s extremely unlikely their paths will ever cross again, or perhaps it’s because he’s just plain likeable, or even that she’s still nursing some strange pseudo hero worship for him.</p><p>“What I was thinking,” she mutters, her face still burning, “was that it really is a bad time to fall in love.”</p><p>Alistair grins this time with understanding, facing her one last time before setting off across the Approach. “Always is,” he tells her, “but I’m told it makes a great story.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I didn't expect to have so much fun writing Wife Guy Alistair but! as a proud Wife Guy, I recognise my own 🤝</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. vi.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The investigation into Samson and red lyrium begins, and Linnea and Cullen have a brief respite from the Inquisition.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sahrnia is, tactically speaking, significant for several different reasons. Harding gives Linnea regular, concise, and informative reports on all fronts, as she always does, and yet despite this, the only fact about Sahrnia that seems to have lodged itself permanently in her brain is that Sahrnia is <em>extremely fucking freezing</em>. Even after a week or more of endless shivering, Linnea isn’t even remotely adapted to the temperature. It’s unfathomably, <em>unreasonably</em> cold, and just when she thinks she can’t possibly feel any colder, the temperature manages, somehow, to drop once more. </p><p>Dorian is excellent company in many ways, but she’s particularly grateful to share a tent with him in weather like this. He has an ingenious method of weaving something akin to a magical barrier alongside the canvas interior of the tent, which traps enough gentle heat from their bodies to make the temperature much more agreeable than the heavy-duty tents can sustain on their own. Linnea lacks his finesse when he’s tried to teach her how to achieve this: she’s liable to work too much heat into it when her attention strays, which has led to singeing both of the canvas (to Morris’ dismay as their long suffering quartermaster) and also its inhabitants (which did not go down especially well with Dorian’s facial hair.) She’s been quite happy to sheepishly leave the temperature control to him after that episode. </p><p>The unfortunate singeing episode also effectively broadcast the benefits of Dorian as a tent-mate more widely than she might have liked, which explains why she’s currently crammed into a tiny, two-person tent not only with her personal Tevinter heater, but a seven foot qunari with a two foot hornspan, and a gangly elf and her absurdly large spread of vials and ingredients. It’s really pushing ‘cosy’ to its limits.</p><p>Linnea, meanwhile, is doing her best to write a brief report balanced on her knees whilst rifling through some of the various missives and scraps they collected in the quarry, not at all helped by the occasional splash of acid from Sera. She wipes another drop wearily off her letter, the parchment shrivelling immediately nonetheless.</p><p>“These tents really aren’t big enough for this,” Linnea says yet again, and - yet again - is largely ignored. </p><p>“This one mentions elfroot,” the Iron Bull says, tapping at a piece of paper. Somehow, despite being physically the largest, he seems to slot most neatly into the limited space. Not to mention that he quietly makes himself useful as well as not wriggling or complaining, letters propped up on one bent leg as his other provides an obliging backrest for Linnea. She’d felt uncomfortable with that sort of casual contact with him, once.</p><p>“The one from Samson?”</p><p>“Yeah. Could be a pressure point, if they’re relying on a steady supply.” Bull shifts slightly behind her; she turns her head curiously to catch the end of the shrug. </p><p>“Not that it isn’t a good point,” she says, “but I’m not sure how I feel about cutting off any pain relief for the people they’re <em>harvesting </em>-“</p><p>“Yeah, I know. It’s your call, boss.”</p><p>Linnea signs, rubbing her forehead. “I was rather hoping I could pass this decision on, actually. I’ll include it in the report, anyway.”</p><p>The Iron Bull lets out a deep hum of what she thinks is agreement, and she turns curiously again to watch him stretch out his arms behind his head as he closes his eyes, the picture of contentment. Once, he would’ve been writing his own report as she scrawled down hers. Convincing air of contentment notwithstanding, she has the feeling that he’s fighting itchy fingers. Habits of a lifetime are hard to break.</p><p>“This is interesting,” Dorian says, not looking up from the letter he’s been inspecting. “Bla, bla, bla - ah, here we are: <em>‘the Elder One believes that the composition of the earth will ensure that it grows more rapidly’ </em>- that does seem to be true of Sahrnia, doesn’t it? I can only think of one other place we’ve come across with such advanced growth.”</p><p>“Really? I can think of a few. Don’t you remember those massive deposits in the Hinterlands?”</p><p>Dorian waves that away impatiently. “It’s not about size when it comes to the rate of growth.”</p><p>“Agreed,” Bull says in a low rumble, half-opening one eye. Linnea fights furiously to keep her expression neutral as Dorian levels him with a look withering enough to reduce trees to ash. “Wait, what are we talking about again? I was meaning -“</p><p>“<em>Lyrium</em>,” Dorian all but snaps, “spreads more laterally the slower the rate of growth, whereas fast growth manifests in the lattice producing further crystallisation on each face -“</p><p>“Boring,” Sera mutters under her breath, and Linnea hurriedly reaches out both palms in placating gestures towards her and Dorian with a warning look, anticipating friction. Sera just shrugs and keeps tinkering with her gear, mercifully. She and Dorian ordinarily get on very well, but when Bull needles him he’s liable to take it out on the next available target. Linnea could make a few guesses as to why that is, but she won’t: she’s keeping her nose firmly out of whatever’s going on between them, lest Dorian set it on fire.</p><p>“That’s a bit rich,” Dorian says archly, but without much real heat. “I saw you listening to Dagna talk about sigils for a solid thirty minutes.”</p><p>“Yeah, well - she’s prettier than you. Makes it less boring.”</p><p>Linnea’s grin escapes before she really thinks about it, but Dorian just snorts. “Then I stand corrected. <em>Anyway</em>, to be more concise: it’s the smaller growths on each larger protrusion that’s a better indicator of the rate of spread. I can only think of one other place I’ve seen it look quite like this.” He inclines his head towards her with slightly raised eyebrows, firmly back in his academic mode and challenging her to keep up with his sharp musings. He’s never patronising, but in these exchanges between them, he tends to take the lead. He has decades on her when it comes to the freedom to indulge in unchecked magical theory; she has just a year. </p><p>“Redcliffe,” Linnea says, frowning at the memory as he nods with satisfaction. “Or the future Redcliffe that never was, I suppose. Something about the rock, some quality or mineral? I’m not well versed in geology but some of the formations could be similar.”</p><p>“That would be my guess. Could be worth investigating.”</p><p>She grins at him. “Are you volunteering yourself for a field trip to Ferelden? Did I hear that correctly?”</p><p>“Alarmingly, yes. I’d quite like to get to the bottom of it.”</p><p>Sera sniggers quietly at the word ‘bottom’, but they both ignore her. “Glad to hear it. The more we can learn about it the better. I need to head that direction anyway, so it works out nicely.”</p><p>Dorian looks up from his notes. “You have business in Ferelden?”</p><p>“Long story,” Linnea says airily, when it is in fact a very short story she would just rather not divulge. Dorian rarely presses her on things like this, but his gaze is shrewd enough to let her know he has half a mind to. “We should get samples for Dagna, too, before we leave.”</p><p>Sera perks up at the mention of their arcanist. “I’ll ask her. Bet she won’t explain it <em>boring</em>.”</p><p>Dorian huffs. “I was under the impression it wasn’t the <em>content </em>of her explanations that interested you so much as the visuals.”</p><p>“What?” Sera furrows her brow, affronted. “Yeah, but I still <em>listen</em>.”</p><p>“Then I’d love to hear your thoughts on sigil installation. Please, enlighten me.”</p><p>“Well, I can’t remember<em> everything -“</em></p><p>Linnea turns back to her report, shaking her head with a grin. “I’ll note that,” she says, over the top of their bickering. “The samples, that is, not Sera’s - er, attention span. I’ve copied out some of the letters we found, hopefully that’s enough for Cullen to work with for the time being.”</p><p>Saying his name is a rookie mistake, and Sera’s expression lights up once more. “You’re writing to <em>Cully</em>?”</p><p>Andraste’s tits, she wishes Sera would drop that name. “He’s our commander,” Linnea says blandly, “and we direct all of our field reports to him, as I’d hope you’d know by now.”</p><p>Sera hits her with her sweetest, most dangerously gleeful smile. “You should draw him a little picture.”</p><p>“Official reports generally don’t require ‘little pictures’. Besides, you’ve seen my attempts at botanical illustrations. Not my forte.”</p><p>“Draw him something nice,” Sera says innocently, “something to remember you by.”</p><p>Despite herself, and despite knowing exactly what Sera is hoping for, Linnea can feel her face growing hot. “<em>Remember me by?’</em> You make it sound like I’m near death. Either way, I think I’ll stick to the standard report, thanks.”</p><p>“You could draw him a little picture of you.” Sera is looking at her slyly. “Maybe, like, one of you lying in the tent, naked -“</p><p>“I couldn’t possibly do that justice,” Linnea says briskly, which is probably an error when it comes to playing right into Sera’s hands, but it gets a chuckle from Bull. “Anyway -“</p><p>“I’ll draw it, then,” Sera declares, and she reaches over to try and snatch the letter from her hand. A brief scuffle ensues wherein Linnea tries - and fails - to retain both the upper hand and her dignity. “Nins! I promise I’ll be flattering -”</p><p>“<em>Sera</em>.”</p><p>“I’ll make your tits look nice!”</p><p>Linnea manages to emerge successful from the cramped scuffle, her report only slightly crumpled. She flattens it out and clears her throat. “That’s, er, very kind of you, but quite unnecessary. And inappropriate,” she adds, rather uselessly. The back of her neck must be violently red at this stage, and Bull is grinning widely. Even Dorian is watching her with a half smile playing on his lips. </p><p>“I get it,” Sera says, showing all her teeth. “Making him wait for the real thing, right?”</p><p>The Iron Bull chuckles. “Smart move, boss.”</p><p>“I’m - that’s not -“ Linnea clamps her mouth shut and raises her eyes to the roof of the tent, thoroughly and skilfully cornered. “You know what they say,” she says waspishly, “those in glass houses…” It doesn't have quite the effect she’d anticipated.</p><p>“What? Glass? Like, all windows?” Sera wrinkles her nose. “Perv.”</p><p>Linnea splutters. “I’m not - it’s an <em>expression!”</em></p><p>“A pervy expression.”</p><p>“You know,” Dorian says, raising an eyebrow, “she does have a point.”</p><p>Linnea meets his eyes with a flush across her cheeks that isn’t entirely due to Sera’s accusations. Dorian rarely teases her, and not about this. No doubt he’d put two and two together before Sera started happily tearing down the flimsy pretence of secrecy that Linnea had still been clinging to, but she’d never explicitly said anything to him about Cullen, and he’d never asked. Likewise, Linnea pretends not to hear the things Bull has been letting slip, and wouldn’t dream of further prodding, however burning her curiosity. </p><p>She’d thought this was a good thing. She’d taken Dorian’s overblown declarations to heart and not burdened him with any of her personal affairs, and been proud of it. They talk academic, and they talk political, but they don’t really get bogged down in the sordid details. She’d thought she was respecting his boundaries. She thought she’d been the only one to parse his prickliness correctly, and responded with her own.</p><p>She wonders now if perhaps she’s been a bad friend.</p><p>“Yes, well,” she mutters, looking sheepish, and then finds she doesn’t know what else to say so shuffles the papers on her lap officiously. Dorian bites back a grin. “As I was saying, I can send some samples on for Dagna when I send -“</p><p>Sera lets out a snort of laughter and flips the piece of paper in her hands to reveal some crudely drawn breasts. “These?”</p><p>“You know,” Linnea says loudly, as Bull and Sera snigger, “I actually recall you having a tent of your own.”</p><p>Bull at least tries to look contrite. It’s a little alarming that despite his generally intimidating stature, horns, and eyepatch, he can still manage sheepish and harmless so well. “C’mon, boss. You wouldn’t send us out into the cold, would you?”</p><p>“I thought you didn’t feel the cold,” Dorian says, the first thing he’s said directly to Bull in hours. Linnea does her level best not to watch them, but sees them make eye contact despite her feigned indifference. </p><p>“Not really,” Bull says, his words sounding more carefully chosen than usual, though no doubt that’s just the impression he wants to give. “But I still like being warm.”</p><p>She hasn’t the foggiest what kind of double meanings anyone could possibly parse from these most mundane of sentences, but at the same time feels as though she’s missing an entire second conversation. Rather than stare at them she widens her eyes meaningfully at Sera, who grins back and starts to make a particularly obscene gesture with her hands. Linnea is sure it’ll irritate Dorian enough to warrant an intervention, so reaches out to slap Sera’s hands down as surreptitiously as she can. She resists with a gleeful cackle, and Linnea has to lunge forward and another undignified half-wrestle unfolds, during which Sera’s artwork gets caught in the crossfire. </p><p>“Nins!” Sera wriggles out from her grasp and smoothes the scrap of paper down, shooting her an indignant look. “You crumpled my tits!”</p><p>“Sometimes,” Linnea says, more to herself than anything, “I can’t quite believe the fate of the continent rests on us.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It takes a little wrangling, but even before the pieces fell so obligingly into her lap she’d been determined to make it work. Cullen has so rarely asked her for anything that when he asks for this, she’s just about ready to trip over herself in her eagerness to make it happen.</p><p>Her and Dorian’s investigations in Redcliffe are productive, even if their usefulness remains to be seen. They spend some time taking samples from the dungeons beneath the castle - with the Arl’s blessing, although his staff were less than thrilled to hear they planned on excavating beyond the brickwork into the rock below, even with Inquisition coin paying for the repairs. Dorian and Linnea excuse themselves hastily from offers of accommodation in the castle itself lest the steward actually weeps, more than happy to take rooms at the Gull and Lantern instead.</p><p>There’s a reasonable Inquisition presence in Redcliffe at present, partly the group she and Dorian travelled with, and partly the off-duty rotation of soldiers stationed out in the Hinterlands as part of Cullen’s efforts to establish something permanent in the Grand Forest Villa. Even so, it’s considerably easier to slip out undetected than it ever is from the Inquisition camps she’s used to being a part of when outside of Skyhold. She puts on a plain, weathered cloak and simply walks out the inn without a single soldier in tow, which is a first.</p><p>It’s not that she’s not <em>allowed</em> to go where she wants, but it’s always been wordlessly agreed upon and arranged so that the Inquisitor doesn’t travel alone. Josie would be horrified to find her flouting this unofficial rule, and she certainly wouldn’t be the only one. For a start, she’s blithely carrying around the only thing in Thedas that can reliably close Fade rifts. Dorian has agreed to run interference if anyone questions where she is, but it's not as if she’s doing anything wrong or horribly irresponsible. She’s simply exercising her right to travel as she pleases in her own time. It’s hardly remarkable.</p><p>Except, of course, that it is. Linnea became a dangerous ward of the Chantry at seven years old, and a religious figure under the protection of the Inquisition after two decades of Circle confinement. The only time she’s really ever been alone - truly alone, not merely alone in a room or building but travelling entirely by herself - was crawling her way out from under the wreckage of Haven, which feels like it doesn’t really count. She’s choosing to count this as the first instead.</p><p>It’s anticlimactic. These discoveries always are. Travelling alone is much like travelling in a small group. The Hinterlands looks much the same whether you’re sharing the sight with someone else or not. Your boots rub in all the same places whether there’s anyone to complain to about it or not. </p><p>Still, she likes it. She likes how mundane it feels.</p><p>Cullen meets her just south of the Crossroads, as arranged, similarly dressed so as to suggest an ordinary traveller rather than the Commander of the Inquisition. His sleeves are rolled up and he looks practically at ease, which have both always been particular weaknesses of hers when it comes to him. He hasn’t spotted her yet, leading two sturdy bay horses by the reins and quietly murmuring to them in soothing tones, which is so disgustingly endearing Linnea can’t quite cope. </p><p>This is how she’s using her newfound freedom. To go on a secretive sightseeing jaunt across Ferelden with an ex-Templar she’s romantically involved with. The irony is <em>palpable</em>. </p><p>His expression warms and softens immediately when he spots her sitting on the stone wall, and she challenges anyone on the receiving end of such a transformation not to be charmed by it. There’s still always an edge of sheepishness to him when they meet after time apart, even after just a few weeks, like he’s forgotten quite how he ought to greet her. That’s part of his charm too. </p><p>He smiles, then clears his throat awkwardly. Linnea sincerely hopes it isn’t cruel how much she enjoys watching him flounder, or the flush rise up his neck. It’s not that she <em>enjoys </em>his discomfort, exactly. It’s just somehow very enjoyable to watch.</p><p>Cullen gives her a polite nod instead of kissing her, which just won’t do. “Everything went well at Redcliffe, I hope?”</p><p>“Very well,” she says, hopping down from her perch on the wall and reaching up absently to pet one of the horses. “And the Villa?”</p><p>“Very well,” he echoes politely, and then notices her trying not to laugh and rubs at his face with a self-deprecating grimace. “Well, the north tower partially collapsed, actually, so not that well at all. Some particularly wretched type of ivy - but I’ll spare you the details. It… wasn’t my intention to discuss work.”</p><p>“No,” she agrees, still fighting a smile, and takes pity on him by taking a step closer and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He relaxes into it immediately, turning his head slightly to coax a proper kiss out of her. “Mmm, much better. You should open with that next time.”</p><p>“I’ll bear that in mind,” Cullen says dryly, pulling back slightly as one of the horses tosses its head with a snort, patting it on the flank. “Point taken,” he tells it under his breath, prompting a laugh from Linnea. She takes the reins of the other horse that is offered to her and casts him a curious look. </p><p>“This is all very mysterious, you know. And now you show up with horses! Am I to take it we’re travelling quite some distance?”</p><p>“No, it isn’t very far.”</p><p>She tilts her head to one side. “Still not revealing the mystery, I see.”</p><p>Cullen breathes out a quick laugh. “I thought it would be more comfortable on horseback, that’s all. Two of Dennet’s finest, though a little less conspicuous than your usual. Shall we?”</p><p>A secretive sightseeing jaunt across Ferelden with an ex-Templar it is, then. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Cullen stops them eventually at a sprawling farm not all that dissimilar to the ones at Redcliffe, which is Linnea’s only real point of reference, if she’s completely honest. The fences around this one look like they’re more in need of repair, and the farmhouse itself is smaller than Dennet’s. There’s also clearly some etiquette here she’s unaware of; Cullen opens the gate to a paddock and leads their horses in, gesturing at the same time for a young boy who’s piling bales of hay. </p><p>She hangs back, sheepish that she’s only now just wondering what people <em>do</em> with their horses when they’re not riding them. As Inquisitor - and truthfully, this is no different than being the young Trevelyan heir, too - it all just sort of <em>happens</em>. She dismounts: someone does something appropriate with Pou and she doesn’t really think about it. Cullen hands the boy a few coins, and she can tell from his wide eyed expression that however much Cullen gave him is more than his usual. No doubt Cullen knows this.</p><p>“I always wanted to ask,” she says, considering him shrewdly as he rejoins her by a small dirt path and gestures for them to follow it. “I’ve never really seen a Templar on a horse, but you ride quite well. Where did you learn?”</p><p>He returns her look with a sideways one of his own. “It’s not just nobles who can ride horses, you know.”</p><p>She has the good grace to blush. “Right. Of course. I just meant -“</p><p>“I grew up here.”</p><p>“Here?” She twists her head immediately to take another far more curious look at the farm, and he shakes his head. </p><p>“Not <em>here</em>. But very near here.”</p><p>The path leads them up a gentle slope as Linnea continues to crane her neck in all directions, newly intrigued now that she knows it’s the landscape of his childhood. He touches his hand absently to the small of her back when her distraction leads her off track, guiding her over the crest of the hill and pointing with his other hand down into the shallow valley. </p><p>Linnea’s sense of direction and general geographical knowledge is shockingly patchy, although perhaps not so shocking given that navigation was a completely abstract concept until a year ago. Perhaps if it wasn’t so poor, she’d have put the pieces together and realised where they were before now.</p><p>“Is that where you grew up?” She only knows the name of it because the Orlesian nobles in Halamshiral insisted on tagging it on the end of all of his introductions in lieu of any further fancy titles. Cullen tends to refer more broadly to Ferelden as his childhood home, probably to encompass the years he spent elsewhere after his recruitment. It takes her a moment to remember it. “Honnleath?”</p><p>He nods and lets his hand drop from her back. His posture is still generally relaxed, but she knows him well enough to notice the stiff line of his jaw. “It’s very different from the last time I last saw it.”</p><p>“When was that?”</p><p>“Quite some time,” Cullen says, and there’s an evasive edge to his words, even as he responds to her questions seemingly freely. “It took a hard knock during the Blight.”</p><p>“Is that when your family left?”</p><p>“Yes. After my parents died.” He doesn’t linger on the sentence, immediately pointing a finger towards the east side of the village and nodding his head for her to follow where he’s indicating. “That was where we lived. I’m surprised it’s still standing, actually. You can see the Chantry, too, just there -“ He’s warming to this distanced tour, she thinks, and she wonders if she can gently draw him out any further. </p><p>“The same Chantry where a tiny Cullen was pestering the Templars every day to let him hold their swords?”</p><p>His mouth quirks. “The very same.”</p><p>“I’m honoured to have seen this historic place,” she says solemnly, even getting a soft laugh out of him. “Am I to deduce this is also the hallowed ground of the infamous chess victory?”</p><p>He smiles at his feet, dropping his hand again. “Indeed.”</p><p>Linnea touches two fingers to his elbow, feeling as if she’s holding a very delicate moment in her hands, something made of fine glass. She is perhaps the only person that he’d let see this moment, possibly even share it, and she doesn’t want to shatter it. </p><p>“Are we going there?”</p><p>He shakes his head. “I hadn't planned to pass through, I hadn’t thought -” He shrugs one shoulder stiffly, and she runs her hand down his forearm, carefully taking his hand and weaving their fingers together. She parses from this that he hadn’t planned on looking at it from afar, either, and the moment feels yet more delicate still.</p><p>“Would you like to?” she asks quietly, and he leans into her for a moment, pressing his face into her hair and breathing deeply.</p><p>“I suppose it’s on the way.”</p><p>“<em>So</em> mysterious,” she says, feeling him smile into her hair. She squeezes his fingers and tugs gently at his hand, finding him pliant and apparently willing to follow where she leads him. He squeezes back, and it’s enough of an answer for her. “Shall we?” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Linnea keeps a steady chatter up the whole time, her mind half on the vice grip he has on her fingers, and the rest of her more than happy to finally indulge her curiosity about Cullen’s family that she’s been keeping diligently in check for so long.</p><p>“So Mia is two years older than you?”</p><p>“A little over, yes. Then me, then Branson, then Rosie.”</p><p>He’s happy enough to answer, but needs a little prompting. “And now they all live near South Reach?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Do you have any other family?”</p><p>“Not really. An aunt in Denerim, I think.” Cullen pauses, and she kicks herself mentally. No doubt his parents weren’t the only ones to have been taken by the Blight in Ferelden, especially if they all lived near Honnleath. “Bran is married with two children, though.”</p><p>“You’re an uncle!” Her delight at this seems to amuse him. “Are they very adorable?”</p><p>His expression turns sheepish. “I... haven’t actually met them yet. I think the oldest is only three.”</p><p>“Oh, dear. You’ll need to make more of an effort if you’re going to be their favourite uncle. I strongly suggest showing up unexpectedly with mysterious trinkets from all over the world, my uncle used to do that and we <em>loved</em> it.” </p><p>Cullen grimaces. “It’s been a very busy three years.”</p><p>“Ah, there it is,” she says slyly, giving him a sideways look. “The infamous work ethic of our formidable commander. You do know we won’t immediately replace you if you visit your family, don’t you?”</p><p>He sighs, not without amusement. “If you’re trying to tell me I’m a terrible brother, then there’s no need. Mia mentions it as often as possible in her letters.”</p><p>“Smart woman. The guilt angle is solid.”</p><p>He snorts, then turns his head away from her slightly. “I would like to visit. It’s just hard to know how to -“ He stops abruptly and shakes his head. “You could visit your family, too.”</p><p>“Maker, no,” she says fervently, and he gives her a blank look. </p><p>“Don’t you have nieces?”</p><p>“Two very adorable nieces, yes. At least, they were adorable several years ago.” It’s Linnea’s turn to sigh. “And completely terrified of me, as it happens, so there’s no much scope for becoming the favourite aunt.”</p><p>“Surely you could -“</p><p>“The last time I saw the youngest, she actually burst into tears with fright. I wasn’t allowed to be within twenty feet of her. My oldest brother - her father - is rather jumpy around me too, and I haven’t had a civil conversation with either of my parents in over two decades, so really, I think I should keep my distance.” She says this quite lightly, but he’s looking at her with an expression that is too close to horrified for her liking. “Oh, don’t give me that look.”</p><p>He only gives it to her more stubbornly. “What look?”</p><p>“The ‘I had an idyllic childhood frolicking free in the fields with my wholesome siblings and my loving parents’ look,” she says, still trying to sound teasing. She’s not sure she succeeds. She forces out a bright smile. “It’s fine, Cullen. Please don’t pity me, I’m just glad <em>you</em> had that experience. Really, I am.”</p><p>His brow furrows. “I’m not sure it is fine.”</p><p>“Well, it’s certainly not something anyone can change.” She squeezes his hand to take some of the sting out of how sharp she sounds. “I can always live vicariously through your childhood stories. I particularly liked the one about you getting stuck on the Chantry roof, which I’m fully expecting you to point out to me, by the way.”</p><p>Cullen unsuccessfully fights a smile, and raises the same hand she’s holding onto to point ahead of them now they’re passing through the village proper. “I’d hate to disappoint.”</p><p>“How long was it again?”</p><p>“Two hours before Mia cracked and told our parents. She’d been hoping I’d be driven to yelling like an idiot until someone noticed me, but I outlasted her.”</p><p>“That you consider that outcome the more dignified option says a lot about you,” she teases, and despite how much he’s tensed up since they started walking along the cobblestone, she gets a quiet laugh. </p><p>Honnleath is small and cosy and every bit the picture of a quaint Ferelden village. If it was hit as hard during the Blight as Cullen says, then there’s not much left of that part of its history to be seen. The houses are neat and intact, the surrounding fields well tended and fruitful, and there’s certainly plenty of residents milling about. She hopes it’s good for Cullen to see his old home in such a peaceful state of existence, though she can’t quite shake the thought of his parents dying here from her mind. Presumably neither can he.</p><p>The Chantry is particularly rustic and tiny, but especially charming for it. Cullen stops in front of a worn statue of Andraste at the gates to the herb garden, which he stays standing and looking intently at for long enough that Linnea has to look away. For all that she’s considered Andraste’s Herald, she’s not sure they have much of an understanding. <em>If you really chose me</em>, she thinks, <em>then even the </em>slightest<em> indication that I’m doing the right thing would be the bare fucking minimum, if you don’t mind. </em></p><p>There’s no answer. She never answers. </p><p>The statue just stares back impassively with her glum, mossy eye sockets, and Linnea clenches her left hand around the Anchor as she holds Cullen’s fingers tighter with her right. </p><p>He comes out of his reverie after several long moments, turning to look at her with a small smile. </p><p>“You should come with me,” he says, “when I visit my family. They’d all like you. I think you’d get along very well with Mia.”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, suddenly nervous. “I tend to intimidate people, apparently, and I’m not sure I’m very good at family things -“</p><p>“You’ll be perfect at it,” he tells her firmly, “and they’ll like you.”</p><p>“Have you, er, told them about -“ His confidence in her always gets her a little flustered, whether it’s her ability to lead or her ability to socialise with his siblings. Perhaps more so when it’s the latter, bizarrely enough. “ - us?” Is what she settles on, a little hesitantly.</p><p>“Not exactly,” Cullen says, “but I’d like to.” He looks at her sideways again. “If you’d like to come with me, that is.”</p><p>“By the Maker, do I hear you actually agreeing to take a break from work?” She feigns shock as he rolls his eyes, but he’s still looking at her with a questioning expression. She feels the moment deserves some sincerity, however instinctively she wants to cringe away from it. “But yes,” she says, and it only comes out slightly stilted. Sometimes she really feels she’s no good at all this. “That sounds - really nice. If you’d like me there.”</p><p>“I would,” he says seriously, with that outrageous sincerity he’s capable of that she never knows quite what to do with, and then tugs at her hand as she just stands there, slightly dazed. “It’s not far now.”</p><p>“To our mystery destination?”</p><p>“Humour me,” he says, his smile beautifully lopsided, “just a little while longer.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Linnea suspects much of the natural tranquility of Cullen’s lakeside destination is lost on her, but she appreciates both the sentiment and the gesture enough to more than make up for it. </p><p>The coin is smooth in her palm, rubbed and worried flat by anxious fingers, she imagines. Now that she thinks about it, she’s seen him turn it over in his hands many times before. She’d assumed it was a nervous habit that manifested with anything he had to hand. </p><p>“I wish I had something to give you,” she says, still a little overcome that he’d give up something so sentimental, but he just shakes his head. “This is - I mean, are you sure?”</p><p>“More than sure,” he says, and closes her palm around it once more. “Any extra luck I can give you is more than worth it.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t have guessed you were so superstitious.”</p><p>Cullen lets out a noncommittal humming sound as he curls his hand carefully around her waist. “I don’t know that it’s <em>superstitious</em>, exactly.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“These things have power,” he says, only sounding a little sheepish. She remembers him saying something similar when she’d declined to send her parents their lock of hair, and finds she can’t quite argue. “It meant something that Branson gave it to me, even if he hadn’t planned to. It was a piece of their love I could carry around -“ He really does look embarrassed at that, and Linnea’s heart is thumping a rather uneven beat itself. Something hangs in the air between them for a moment. “- well, thank you for humouring me.”</p><p>“Like I said,” she murmurs, too overwhelmed to be serious, “<em>superstitious</em>.”</p><p>Cullen makes an indignant grumbling noise, but she can tell he’s smiling by the shape of his lips as they meet hers. He kisses her with the certainty of someone who knows what they want, and that means something, too. </p><p>As he pulls her closer she takes a step and finds her toes catching on the edges of a piece of wood that makes up the jetty. She blames it mostly on how much he’s managed to fluster her that she trips clumsily, held upright where he catches her by the waist. </p><p>“Careful,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Leliana will have my head if I’m careless enough to lose the Inquisitor in a lake.”</p><p>“Quite right. And you <em>would</em> lose me; the swimming lessons from Cassandra never really stuck.” She shivers delicately. “Quite frankly I’d rather drown than endure that again, and you can tell her I said that.”</p><p>Cullen pulls back slightly to half-smile at her. Perhaps it’s even nearer to a smirk, the insufferable man. “You can’t swim?”</p><p>“Don’t you start,” she says, fighting a grin. “Of course <em>you</em> can swim wonderfully, I’m sure, with that wholesome childhood of yours. I bet you even swam in this - this - swamp -”</p><p>“It’s a <em>lake</em>, and of course I swam in it. It’s very refreshing.”</p><p>“You’ve said a lot of horrifyingly Fereldan things to me,” she says, casting the <em>lake</em> an alarmed glance, “but that might just be the worst.”</p><p>Cullen’s grin has broken out in earnest now, no longer able to contain it. “Can you really not swim?”</p><p>“Stop it. Whatever you’re thinking -”</p><p>“The formidable Inquisitor,” he says solemnly, “scourge of darkspawn -”</p><p>She groans and lets her forehead drop onto his shoulder, but he holds her at arm’s length, still grinning. “I don’t like that look in your eyes,” she tells him sternly, “so stop thinking whatever it is you’re thinking -”</p><p>“Surely you need to know how to swim.”</p><p>“I haven’t drowned yet,” she says, indignant, “so I hardly think - <em>what</em> are you doing?”</p><p>What he is doing, apparently, is unbuttoning his coat. “We’re going swimming.”</p><p>“Of course we are,” Linnea says, imagining she’s calling his bluff. He shucks his jacket to the floor, and suddenly she’s not so sure. “You can’t be serious. You absolutely cannot be serious.”</p><p>“Why not?” He starts undoing his shirt and she finds all she can do is blink at him. </p><p>“You can’t get in there! You’ll - you’ll get some sort of horrible pond disease from those floating things -”</p><p>Cullen raises his eyebrows. “The plants?”</p><p>“It’s stagnant!”</p><p>“Hardly.”</p><p>“But you can’t see through them! It might be really deep, or really - really sharp at the bottom, or what if you accidentally swallow some water, or some wild animal has shit in it, or something -”</p><p>He’s grinning again, unruffled by the troubling scenarios she’s painting. “Is this your first time outdoors, Lady Trevelyan?”</p><p>Her jaw practically drops. She’s not entirely sure she recognises this version of Cullen, which isn’t to say she doesn’t like it. </p><p>He drops his shirt on top of his jacket and starts pulling his boots off, which is somewhat of a mercy because he can’t see how hot her cheeks suddenly feel. Not that she <em>hasn’t</em> pictured him getting undressed in front of her, but it wasn’t outdoors, and it certainly wasn’t against the backdrop of some kind of large, fetid pond. She can’t believe this is how it’s happening. It’s absurd. </p><p>She has a fairly exhaustive list of things she’d like to do if she ever has him alone, relaxed, and half dressed in her presence. None of them seem quite appropriate now. The list still scrolls enthusiastically before her eyes, even so. His boots join his shirt and jacket and she tries not to look too obviously like she’s mournfully imagining running her teeth across his collar bone. </p><p>“You’ll freeze to death,” she says weakly. “Leliana will have <em>my</em> head if I let you die in a swamp.”</p><p>“It’s late spring,” he says, sounding amused, and his boots hit the jetty as well. Right. <em>Right</em>. “It’s very mild.” He starts to unbuckle his belt and she makes a strangled noise of concern and confusion, among other things, which thankfully he doesn’t seem to register. Again, very much <em>not</em> how she imagined this happening. “Are you coming?”</p><p>“Absolutely not. What reason could I possibly have for jumping into a freezing marsh?”</p><p>He abandons his undressing for a moment to tug her closer by catching one of her hands and pulling her towards him. His skin is warm under her palms. “It’ll be fun,” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to her mouth. “You’ll pick it up quickly.” She can’t believe his bare shoulders are finally there right beneath her fingers and he’s going to <em>dump them straight into the stagnant swamp.</em> </p><p>“<em>Fun?</em> Who are you, and what have you done with Cullen Rutherford?” He just smiles at that, not an ounce of prickiness to be seen, and she can feel her resolve crumbling. “Maker’s <em>breath</em> - fine, but if I catch a horrible pond disease, or drown -”</p><p>“You won’t drown.”</p><p>“No reassurances on the pond diseases, I see. How comforting. Anyway, if I drown -“</p><p>“I won’t let you drown.”</p><p>“- I’ll come back and haunt you,” she threatens, mourning the loss of his warmth immediately as he grins and lets go of her. Once he takes his trousers off she’s probably going to need to be thrown in cold water anyway, quite frankly. This is too much for her poor brain to handle. </p><p>At least he isn’t completely naked, she thinks, shedding her own jacket distractedly as she watches him submerge into the water with a sigh. (Even this relaxed version of Cullen eases himself into the lake carefully; he isn’t yet so boisterous to take a running jump.) He looks so improbably peaceful with his eyes closed as he floats just a few feet from the jetty. She can’t quite look away from him; she’s almost mesmerised by the sheer contentment of the picture in front of her.</p><p>When he opens his eyes again he politely averts his gaze as she removes her own trousers in an undignified series of hops, which is more than she managed when he took his off. This isn’t exactly how she’d planned on first undressing in front of him, either, and she feels briefly wounded by his impeccable manners. She’s not all that prudish about stripping down to her underwear as someone who spends much of their time sharing and living in cramped tents, and most often than not washing communally in the nearest body of fresh water. No doubt Cullen has spent enough time in dormitories and barracks to have reached much the same place.</p><p>He keeps up this polite gaze aversion until she slides into the water with a quiet noise of disgust, and he makes up for it immediately by offering his hands out to her attentively. She grabs his shoulder with a shudder, holding herself afloat with the vice grip she has on him.</p><p>“It’s not that deep,” he says, gently amused, “you should be able to stand.”</p><p>“I’ve absolutely no intention of finding out what mud between my toes feels like, thank you.”</p><p>Cullen laughs quietly, wrapping an arm carefully around her to better support her valiant efforts to stay clear of the silt, and as his open palm comes to rest against the skin of her lower back she suddenly cares significantly less about the murky water. “I can’t quite believe this is the same woman who waded through the Mire fighting the reanimated undead.”</p><p>“That’s because I didn’t include all the complaining in the reports.” She hooks her elbow around his neck and he holds her more carefully still, the placement of his hands amusingly gentlemanly, given the circumstances. “And I can’t quite believe this is the same man who wouldn’t call me by my given name for at least the first three months we knew each other. Maybe more.”</p><p>“I’m not sure how that’s entirely relevant,” he mutters irritably, but closes the distance left between them to kiss her, so she suspects it’s all for show.</p><p>It’s hard not to become quite indecently entangled when she’s attempting to stay afloat merely by holding onto him, and when they kiss, Cullen stops trying not to. Linnea doesn’t object at all when his hands find the backs of her thighs and he holds her legs around his waist for more stability, and she finds herself quickly forgetting all about the potential pond diseases as she anchors her fingers in the damp hair at the back of his neck. </p><p>It turns out that she can bear being submerged in tepid bog water quite well, under the right circumstances. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>No significant swimming instruction takes place, and nor, in fact, does much actual swimming, either. Linnea mostly just wraps herself around him happily and they kiss until the warmth of the afternoon starts to fade. It’s disgustingly romantic. Dorian’s going to ask about her Ferelden sightseeing jaunt, and she can’t possibly tell him the <em>truth</em>: that they stripped down to their underwear and spent the best part of an hour necking tenderly amongst the algae in some backwater pond. He’ll laugh her all the way to Skyhold. </p><p>Back on the jetty, severely underdressed and still damp, Cullen sits on the edge with his feet dangling in the water. He never seems to feel the cold quite like she or anyone else does, and as she settles down next to him, his arm is surprisingly warm to the touch. She thinks it may be a lyrium thing, but she’s certainly not about to draw attention to it by asking. It is what it is. </p><p>Instead, Linnea huddles closer to him, shivering a little. He puts his arm around her after a moment of polite hesitation, as if her legs hadn’t been wrapped around his waist moments before, and he hadn’t been pulling her closer just as impatiently as she was pressing herself against him. Given their entanglement it would’ve been difficult not to notice how hard he was even if he’d been aiming for it to go unnoticed, and it certainly seemed as though he made no attempt to hide it. She’s exercising her own politeness by not looking now they’re out of the water, but the thought that he might be in much the same condition still only makes the cautious way he holds her even more perplexing. </p><p>It’s endearing, in the sort of way that he’s often endearing, in a way that’s gentle and considerate - and who could really take issue with that? Still, it also sits somewhat uneasily with her, knowing what she does, noticing how quick he can be to retreat to that place of polite distance. She’d shivered delicately in the lake, barely at all, and he’d immediately broken away to pull her through the water with concern and lift her up onto the jetty. He’d kissed her enthusiastically enough but at the first sign of her discomfort, it was almost as though he was waiting for the excuse. </p><p>She leans into him, tucking her head against his shoulder and kissing him softly on the underside of his jaw. Some of his stiffness starts to loosen, his arm relaxing around her as he runs his thumb over her skin.</p><p>“If it turns out,” she says, “that this is your adolescent seduction technique, I’m going to be very offended.”</p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>“Taking girls to the local lake and teaching them to ‘swim’.” She elbows him gently in the side. “Absolutely shameless.”</p><p>“I think you’re overestimating my adolescent abilities somewhat,” he says, the corner of his mouth curving upwards slightly. “Besides, I was only thirteen when I left to join the Order.”</p><p>“No young romance, then?” </p><p>“No success, anyway.”</p><p>“Oh?” She nestles further into his side, shivering more now. “Do tell.”</p><p>“You’re shivering.” Cullen reaches behind them for her coat and drapes it over her shoulders before rubbing her arms through the thick fabric. “Better?”</p><p>“Better, but you’re not wriggling out of this one.” She grins widely as he lets out an amused huff, and then plucks at her wet under garments, at which he averts his gaze hurriedly. “They’re nearly dry enough to get dressed, anyway. Now, tell me about your failed childhood romance.”</p><p>“Hardly a romance,” he says, still rubbing her arms. “We were twelve.”</p><p>“Your first kiss?”</p><p>“Mmm. Then I left, of course.”</p><p>“You could have had a romance by correspondence, and reconnected when you were older! Commander, I’m disappointed in your lack of tenacity, even at twelve years old.”</p><p>“Yes, well,” Cullen says, suddenly very amused, “I might have considered it, if I hadn’t interrupted her and Mia on a visit home...”</p><p>Linnea grins even more widely. “Oh, she <em>didn’t</em>.”</p><p>“She very much did.” He tucks some of her damp hair absently behind her ear. “I didn’t talk to Mia the entire week I was at home, it was all very childish.”</p><p>“My first kiss is also a dramatic story of betrayal,” she says with a self-deprecating laugh. “What is it about us? Anyway, I think I owe you the story after sharing that delightful family nugget, not that it’s all that interesting, really. Lydia had me join a class of slightly older apprentices, and I was <em>so</em> pleased with myself for being so <em>advanced</em> and so <em>smart</em>. I was completely besotted with this one girl, who talked me into writing all of her assignments - not that I needed much persuasion, to be honest - I really thought she liked me. I was so giddy about it.”</p><p>Cullen grimaces. “Oh dear.”</p><p>“Oh dear indeed. I overheard her in the library laughing with the rest of them about poor, gullible me.” Linnea clutches dramatically at her heart. “And thus the stage was set for a string of disastrous romantic endeavours.”</p><p>The look he gives her is flatteringly surprised. “Disastrous?”</p><p>“There certainly wasn’t much success. It was a little less childish, but that first mortifying incident rather set the tone for the future. Nothing went much better, really, except for -“ She laughs a little, feeling her cheeks growing warm. “Well, improbably, the ex-Templar. Who knew?”</p><p>Cullen goes quiet at that, his thumb just rubbing circles on her shoulder through the coat. After a few long moments, she nudges his shoulder. “Are Templar recruit quarters as much of a hotbed of adolescent drama as the apprentice dormitories?”</p><p>His expression grows a little less somber, to her relief. “That’s one way to put it.”</p><p>“Any good stories?”</p><p>“Hmm,” he says, giving her a sideways glance that tells her she’s not getting more out of him. He hasn’t closed off to questioning, though, which is encouraging. </p><p>She presses a quick kiss to his shoulder, noticing him tensing up again. “Was there anyone in Kirkwall? You must have lived there for ten years.”</p><p>“There was someone,” he says after a moment, his answer immediately sheepish if not immediately forthcoming. “A, er, a member of the city guard. We met before I was Knight-Commander.”</p><p>She hardly dares push her luck; it’s so rare to tease this sort of detail from him, and she’s been so intensely curious. “And was it serious?”</p><p>“Serious?” He seems a bit startled by the question. “I don’t suppose so. Not really.”</p><p>Linnea sees she will have to fish more directly for the information she’s after, and hums softly against his shoulder in acknowledgement, hoping to make the question seem casual. “But you were sleeping together?”</p><p>“We, er - yes.”</p><p>She hums again, aiming for polite but attentive interest. “For long?”</p><p>“A few years.”</p><p>“A few years!” She’s startled into staring blankly at him. “And it wasn’t serious?”</p><p>“She was a very good friend to me in Kirkwall.”</p><p>Linnea lets out a low whistle. “A <em>friend</em>, ouch.”</p><p>He winces and rubs at his forehead. “I was very fond of her, but I wasn’t - I wasn’t exactly looking for - I was very busy.“</p><p>“What if you hadn’t been busy?” Linnea asks, a little horrified to find herself overcome with a fit of possessiveness. It’s ridiculous.</p><p>Cullen raises his shoulder in an embarrassed shrug. “I don’t really know. I always valued her friendship.”</p><p>She rests her chin on his shoulder. “I don’t suppose you taught her how to <em>swim</em>?”</p><p>That gets a faint smile. “No.”</p><p>“Or gave her a lucky coin?” she continues half-teasingly, thinking more of walking through Honnleath with his fingers tight between hers.</p><p>“No.” His voice is suddenly very soft. “I didn’t.”</p><p>“Good,” she murmurs, “or I’d have to be jealous -“</p><p>He slides his hand down to her waist and kisses her with as much tenderness as he ever has, as if to say, <em>but</em> <em>this is serious, I wasn’t looking for it but I want it.</em> Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. </p><p>It’s a lovely kiss, either way, and she’s so very sorry for what she has to say afterwards. It’s taken root so thoroughly in her thoughts that if she doesn’t drag it out into the open, she - well. She has to know. They can’t skirt around it forever.</p><p>She pulls back, one hand on his face, and runs her thumb over his bottom lip gently. Not that it’ll soften the question. </p><p>“Cullen,” she says quietly, not letting go of his jaw and holding his gaze, however much she’d like to look away. “There’s probably a subtle and tactful way to ask this, but you know I’m no good at any of that, so please forgive me: are you afraid of being intimate with me?”</p><p>He closes his eyes and lets his forehead rest against hers for a long, agonising moment. “Not exactly,” he says eventually, his voice hoarse. </p><p>“It’s fine if you are,” she says, although it isn’t, not really. Her stomach is tying itself in knots, and all she knows how to do is to weakly inject humour into the situation. “If Dorian has been telling you all those ridiculous stories about powerful magisters setting their house on fire during a night of passion, I feel I should at least tell you that <em>that’s</em> nonsense. Even if it’s not nonsense then it’s absolutely intentional, I don’t presume to speak for the Tevinter flair for the dramatic, but I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if it was some kind of way to outdo one another -“</p><p>Cullen wets his lips. “Linnea -</p><p>She ploughs onwards despite his interruption, unable to curb her nervous energy. “- and it’s fine if you just don’t <em>want</em> to -“</p><p>“I didn’t say that,” he says, enough humour in his voice that she meets his gaze again to see the echo of a smile on his mouth. “I’d have hoped it was obvious that wasn’t the case.”</p><p>She takes a breath. “I suppose you did lure me out here just to fabricate a reason to undress me.”</p><p>He keeps his head pressed against hers, breathing out an almost-laugh. </p><p>“I’m not afraid,” he says, “at least, not of you. Not like - well. It’s <em>you</em> so who should be afraid of <em>me</em>.”</p><p>“Oh.” She lets out an almost-laugh of her own, a little high pitched and nervous. “Probably.”</p><p>She feels him frown against her forehead. “I’m being serious.”</p><p>“So am I. What do you imagine I’d be afraid of?”</p><p>“My abilities, for one.”</p><p>Another nervous laugh. “Forgive me, but do you still even <em>have</em> abilities?”</p><p>“Honestly, I don’t know.”  He shifts to take her other hand, and weaves their fingers together. “I chose to leave them behind, and I never cared to find out. It’s certainly possible I do. But even without them -“ He stops abruptly, and though she waits a few moments, he doesn’t seem inclined to continue. </p><p>She attempts a cautious redirection. “So what <em>are</em> you afraid of?”</p><p>“I’m not sure I can explain any better than I have,” he says tersely, which doesn’t make all that much sense given he hasn’t provided anything really resembling an explanation during this brief conversation. Perhaps he means the somber discussion they had in her quarters only a handful of weeks ago, but she’s not sure that quite comprises an answer, either. </p><p>“I’m not afraid of you,” he says again, with renewed surety. “I couldn’t possibly be afraid of you.”</p><p>“And yet my <em>abilities</em> are both dangerous and definitely present, the former particularly pertinent if yours aren’t.”</p><p>He shakes his head. “I see none of the things I fear about magic in -“</p><p>“In me, yes. Not that it isn’t flattering,” she says, doing her best to keep her voice steady and not lett any of the bitterness creep in, “but don’t you think that’s a little inconsistent?”</p><p>“Not at all.” </p><p>He sounds so unwaveringly certain, and although her first instinct is to be irritated, to her exasperation his faith moves her, too. Perhaps he is being exceptionalist. Probably he is trying desperately to reconcile two things that can’t both be true but he needs them to be nonetheless, and inevitably reaching a conclusion that contradicts itself. She could pick it apart, but to what end? He’d just dig his heels in and frustrate both himself and her even more, and if she did get through to him, he wouldn’t know what to do with it. He needs to believe he’s right. If she shattered that, she’s not sure he would know how to pick up the pieces. </p><p>It feels as though he’s offering her his heart in both hands, for all its flaws and contradictions and faults, and this doesn’t come easily to him, to offer it like this. She could spend another hour picking it apart and never getting anywhere. She could spend a lifetime.</p><p>She takes his head in her hands with all the vulnerability he’s shown her and tries for some of her own. It doesn’t exactly come easily to her, either. </p><p>“The Linnea who attended the conclave is - dead, I suppose,” she says, “I don’t think she ever walked out. Maybe she did, in which case she just died a slow death afterwards, but either way I lost her completely somewhere between Haven and Skyhold. That sounds very dramatic, but it’s true: I haven’t just <em>changed</em>, I haven’t just grown as a person and seen the world and all that nonsense, it’s more than that. I just feel completely sure that she’s <em>gone</em>. I don’t know if that makes any sense.”</p><p>Cullen breathes out slowly, but holds her gaze. “Actually, it very much does.”</p><p>“I think <em>she</em> would’ve been afraid of you.”</p><p>“I think she <em>was</em> afraid of me.”</p><p>Linnea nods, not looking away. “But I’m not quite her, not anymore. All <em>I’m</em> really afraid of is being her again. I can’t go back in a cage again, Cullen, and what I’m afraid of is that whether you know it or not, that’s where you think I belong.”</p><p>He answers at once. “Of course not.”</p><p>“I don’t just mean a Circle tower; there are a lot of different cages. I’m not entirely convinced being the Inquisitor isn’t just a bigger one.”</p><p> She has rarely seen him look so completely staggered, which is something of a surprise. He can be so carefully analytical about so many things, but when it comes to questioning the way things are, the way he’s been told they are over and over, he seems to hit a wall. It’s not unusual; lots of people operate this way. She just has to wonder if he’d be that way without nearly twenty years of Chantry duty closing his eyes. </p><p>“You’re right,” he says eventually, surprising her again. “I hadn’t thought - you’re right. We ask entirely too much of you, and - forgive me - I don’t see a way we could possibly stop.”</p><p>“I don’t expect you to -“</p><p>“I hope,” he says, “that today at least shows that I don’t want that for you. A cage, that is,” he adds, stumbling over the word and wincing slightly.</p><p>Linnea finds herself smiling, despite the melancholy expression on his face and the heaviness of the conversation. </p><p>“Actually,” she says, “I think it might.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter ran away with me a bit, and yet also only contains about half the things it was meant to. Pacing?! I don't know her</p><p>Thank you so much for your kind comments on this self-indulgent beast of a fic as I slowly reach the end! I'm determined to have it finished before the end of summer, and I can't even tell you how much joy it's brought me. I'm honestly embarrassed for myself. Thanks for coming along for the ride &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>